Broken
by Neena Varscona
Summary: In the battle between House and Vogler, some things were bound to get broken. Hurtcomfort, slash. Rated T for first chapters, M for last chapter.
1. Chapter 1

Fic: Broken, Part 1

Author: Neena (varsconapalyahoo.ca)

Rating: FRM (mature readers)

Pairing: House/Wilson, pre-slash

Archive: If you want it, let me know :)

Disclaimer: I don't own these characters—they own me. I make no money off of them, and I have the empty wallet to prove it.

Spoilers: Babies and Bathwater. I took some liberty with the timeline in this episode, squeezing this story between the lines.

Summary: In the battle between House and Vogler, some things were bound to get broken.

Warnings: mention of rape, angst.

A/N: I always wondered what happened to House's first cane.

* * *

Wilson was dreaming. Not pleasant dreams of sunshine and red corvettes, but corrosive dreams with razor-sharp edges. They slashed at him in rapid succession…running away from an unseen attacker…the earth opening up under his feet…hands clawing at him from freshly dug graves…treading water in a black ocean with eerie white spectres of sharks swimming just beneath him…a phone ringing, jangling and discordant, just out of reach…

A well-aimed elbow caught him in the kidney, and Wilson awoke with a yelp. The telephone part of his nightmare had been real, and Julie had apparently decided it was his fault it was ringing at…2:15 am.

She gave him a sour look before rolling over to go back to sleep. She was mad at him because she'd also decided it was his fault that he had no job to go to in the morning. They'd argued about it at length—he'd brought up Vogler, she'd countered with House, and they'd both gone to bed angry. And now Wilson found himself longing for the nightmares—at least you could wake up and forget about those.

Julie gave him a warning sigh and Wilson reached over to his bedside table and picked up the phone mid-jangle.

"Hello? … Hello? …House is that you? …Jesus, Greg, what's wrong? …Of course, I'll be right there."

Wilson dropped the phone, his feet hitting the floor before the phone had even landed on the bed. He felt panicky—he hadn't heard his friend this shaken in five years. Not that he'd said much over the phone—he'd simply said he needed him to come over—but the lateness of the hour and the strain in his voice spoke volumes. For a moment Wilson debated whether or not he should change out of his pyjamas, but in the end urgency won out over decorum.

"You're leaving?" said Julie, not bothering to turn and face him.

"He needs me," Wilson replied simply.

She didn't have to say she thought he was a fool to stay friends with the man who'd just cost him his job. She didn't have to say that he'd been spending more time at Greg's house than his own. The bitter retorts were implied in the icy silence that hung in the air between them as he walked out of the bedroom.

* * *

There were no lights visible in the windows of House's condo as Wilson pulled up front. And as he approached and noticed that the door had been left slightly open, his heart rate kicked up a notch.

Wilson pushed open the door and stood in the dark threshold. He could hear House's raspy breathing and his eyes followed the sound to a shadowy silhouette leaning against the wall about ten feet away. Icy light from the windows frosted one side of his lean frame, leaving the rest in utter blackness.

"House?"

"You shouldn't have come."

"You called. I was worried." And he was still worried. He'd known Greg long enough to know there was something seriously wrong.

"It's two-thirty in the morning. You should be in bed trying to patch things up with Julie."

"Yeah. Well, I'm here now," said Wilson, reaching his hand up to flick on the lights.

"Leave them off," said House, but it was more of a plea than a demand.

Wilson sighed, hanging his head briefly in consternation, then walked into the dark room, closing the door behind him. When he turned to face House again he noticed a change in his friend's posture. He was more alert, leaning less, and he kept checking over his shoulder like he was mapping out an escape route. The closer Wilson got, the more rapid House's breathing became, and Wilson couldn't help feeling that he was afraid of him. But that was ridiculous—they both knew he could never stay mad at House for what he'd done. It would be as pointless as being mad at the Mona Lisa for not breaking into a toothy grin on demand.

"Are you going to tell me what this is all about?" asked Wilson, stopping a few feet shy of his friend.

"It's nothing. I shouldn't have called you," said House, taking a shaky step backwards, using the wall for support and guidance.

"Uh huh," said Wilson sceptically. He took a quick lunge to the left and clicked on the lamp sitting on the nearest end table.

The flash of anger on House's face couldn't disguise the redness of his eyes or the dark smudges underneath them. And it did nothing to hide the blooming bruise on his jaw, either.

"Another disgruntled patient?" asked Wilson, trying to ease some of the tension.

"I don't suppose you'd buy the old 'I slipped getting out of the tub' excuse?" Wilson simply raised an eyebrow at him. "I didn't think so. Look, it's no big deal… I got mugged."

"My God, are you alright?" asked Wilson.

"I'm fine," House assured him. "But when I got home I started feeling a little jumpy… I shouldn't have called you."

"You keep saying that," said Wilson. "You're allowed to call me, House. Anytime. I mean—you were mugged! I think that warrants a late night phone call."

House hesitated, his sharp blue eyes darting anxiously towards the door and then back to Wilson, as if he was afraid someone might overhear him. "It was Vogler," House said in a hoarse half-whisper.

"Vogler did this to you!" Wilson exclaimed, and House winced at his raised voice.

"No," said House. "But he's the reason it happened."

Wilson shoved his hands into the pockets of his pyjamas and shook his head. "Just because you messed up with the Vogler thing does not mean you deserve to get mugged."

House looked away to hide the flash of hurt in his eyes. The implication was that, at least on some level, Wilson believed he had good reason to feel that guilty. And maybe he was right. He cleared his throat, and then fixed Wilson with as steady a gaze as he could manage. "I'm not talking about karma. I meant what I said literally—Vogler is responsible for what happened tonight. The guy who attacked me said Vogler sent him as a warning."

Wilson stood there gaping at House. He knew he wasn't lying, but at the same time it just seemed impossible. "Are you saying Vogler hired a thug to beat you into submission?" he asked at last, still struggling to believe it.

"Must be nice to have that kind of money," House replied flippantly, but the tiny twitch that accompanied the words betrayed a much deeper emotional undercurrent.

"Let me have a look at you," said Wilson, advancing a step. House tried to back away again, but the lazy-boy chair behind him blocked his retreat. "Please, let me look at you," he repeated softly as he slowly invaded House's space.

House stood stiff as a board as his friend prodded the bruise on his face, doing his best to avoid looking him in the eye.

"Was it just the one punch?" asked Wilson.

House didn't answer. What would be the point? It wasn't like Wilson would have believed him if he said no. Instead, he let Wilson read into his silence whatever answer suited him best.

"Alright, then. How about we get you to the bathroom and get you cleaned up?" said Wilson. "Where's your cane?" He looked around, but the familiar wooden limb was nowhere to be seen.

"Broken," said House.

Wilson nodded briefly, an unspoken acknowledgement of House's reluctance to discuss it. "Take my arm," he said, holding it out for House. House rolled his eyes dramatically at him, but he didn't hesitate to take him up on the offer.

It was obvious from House's heavy reliance on Wilson as a crutch that he'd been hurt a lot worse than he was letting on. Wilson said nothing, but with every painful step towards the bathroom he had to fight the urge to wrap his arms around his friend and carry him the rest of the way. Such a thing was out of the question with House, however. Stubborn autonomy was the rule of the day.

When Wilson flicked on the lights in the bathroom, House squinted into the harsh glare. It was a cruel light, highlighting every flaw, every wrinkle, and every bruise with blunt, unforgiving honesty. House turned away from the mirror, preferring the kindlier sight of his closest friend…who was currently getting a lot closer. House tried not to flinch as he allowed Wilson to strip him of his t-shirt. He hated being treated like an invalid, but his friend had a way of doing things for him without a fuss that somehow made it okay.

Wilson stood back and looked him over critically. It didn't look too bad, all things considered. There were two distinctly reddened areas on his abdomen—two gut punches aimed to knock the air out of him. Painful, sure, but the damage was most likely minimal. Wilson figured the guy was probably paid to put a scare into him, not to really hurt him.

"Satisfied?" House asked, eyeing his discarded t-shirt with longing.

Wilson shrugged. "I guess. You haven't noticed any indication of internal bleeding?" he asked, not yet willing to let his patient off the hook.

"None. Feel free to poke me if you want…but watch the left flank—I'm ticklish."

"Fine," said Wilson with a dry chuckle. "You can put your shirt back on." But when House turned around to grab his shirt from the counter behind him, Wilson saw something that set the alarms going off again. Without thinking, he reached out and touched the oddly shaped bruise that striped its way across his friend's back. House reacted as if he'd been prodded with a hot poker.

Wilson, trying his best to calm House down, physically manoeuvred him over to the toilet seat and attempted to get him to sit. He ended up with House clawing his way up his arm like a kitten who'd just discovered what pant legs were for.

"Relax, House," said Wilson. "I just want you to sit down so I can get a better look at your back."

"No!" House bit back furiously—his eyes were glassy, and he was teetering precariously on the verge of losing control.

"Would you rather I take you to the hospital?" Wilson asked calmly. "Maybe you'd feel more comfortable if someone else…"

"No," said House, locking eyes with Wilson. "No one else."

Wilson nodded, aware that what House was really doing was swearing him to secrecy—something he knew he might very well regret later.

House finally released his death grip on Wilson's sleeve, redistributing his weight over his good leg so he could stand on his own. He started undoing his belt, keeping his eyes downcast so he wouldn't see the inevitable look of confusion and concern on his friend's face. He hated that he couldn't keep his hands from shaking, but at least Wilson knew better than to try and help him. At last the buckle came loose, and the rest was easy. Wilson steadied him as he stepped out of his jeans, and House winced. It wasn't because of the pain—he was more than capable of dealing with the pain—he winced because he knew it was too late to turn back.

Wilson shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other as he watched House strip out of his underwear. He could sense his friend's embarrassment, but he had no idea what he was supposed to be looking at. And then House turned around and he had his answer.

The bruise he'd seen on his back was only the first of many. House's buttocks and upper thighs were criss-crossed with long, angry red welts, all of them uniformly straight and about an inch thick. It was a fair bet that House's cane had made those marks. That alone was enough to make Wilson blanche, but when he noticed the specks of blood dotting House's inner thighs…

Wilson felt so outraged he wanted to scream, but he held his tongue—right now House needed him to remain calm. He took a deep, steadying breath and asked; "Did this…mugger…wear a condom?" It was hard to keep his voice neutral and detached when the turmoil in his soul was pitching a fit to get out.

"I'm not sure," House answered. "I think so." There was more than a trace of relief in his voice, as if he'd done more than just share his burden—he'd handed it over to Wilson entirely. He didn't even seem to mind Wilson's gently probing fingers as he examined him.

Wilson checked him over quickly and carefully, and then handed him a towel from the towel rack. House wrapped himself up in it and calmly watched his friend pace back and forth in the tiny room.

"Greg…I need to get you to a hospital."

"Is it that bad?"

"The tearing is minimal, but we need to run tests. If he wasn't wearing a condom, we have to make sure…"

"No," said House flatly. "No hospitals. No paperwork." Then, in an almost inaudible voice, he added, "Please."

Wilson's shoulders slumped and he stopped pacing. There was no sense arguing with him—under the circumstances it was a minor miracle he'd opened up to him at all.

"Alright," Wilson agreed. "Just promise me you'll run the tests yourself at work tomorrow."

House gawped at him as if he'd gone mad. "I can't go back there! Not tomorrow, not ever. I'm quitting—first thing in the morning I'm faxing my resignation in to Cuddy."

"I can't believe you're not going to fight this," said Wilson. "If you quit, then Vogler wins and all this was for nothing. What are you gonna do—vanish off the face of the Earth until Vogler dies?"

"That was the idea, yeah," said House, starting to feel uncomfortable again. "I can't do it, Jimmy," he added quietly.

Wilson felt like a heel—the man had just been raped, and here he was trying to bully him back into the lion's den. He was so used to thinking of House as invulnerable that he sometimes forgot it was only a façade, and a flimsy one at that. He was every bit as vulnerable as the next man, whether he let it show or not. Wilson nodded his understanding and let his eyes do the apologizing—vocalizing his thoughts right now would only serve to poke more holes in House's already-tattered defences.

They stood facing each other awkwardly for a moment, until House cleared his throat and broke the silence. "If you don't mind, I think I'd like to take a shower now," said House, his eyes glued to a nice, safe spot on the tiled floor.

"Of course," said Wilson. "I'll, uh…I'll be outside if you need anything." He made a discreet exit, despite his hesitance in leaving House alone.

Half an hour later, House got out of the tub, steam billowing around him in a thick cloud. He looked disdainfully down at the pile of clothes on the floor. He wanted to burn them, and if he had a lighter, he would have, but he settled for bundling them up and tossing them into the little wastebasket beside the sink. He was about to call out to Wilson to get him something to wear when he noticed the t-shirt and sweatpants—his preferred choice in p.j.'s—laid out for him by the door. The extra vicodin he'd popped before getting into the shower was kicking in nicely. He felt exhausted and doped up, and, thanks to Wilson, he had fresh clothes on, which made him feel almost human again.

Wilson smiled kindly at him as he emerged from the bathroom. He'd probably been standing there waiting the whole time, House thought, and he tried his best to return the smile. But he knew the smile never reached his eyes—the best his eyes could offer was his undying gratitude.

"You look like you could fall asleep standing up," said Wilson. "C'mon. Let's get you into bed."

"What would your wife say?" House teased lightly.

Wilson's smile broadened, relieved to see a touch of the old House peeking through. "Nothing she hasn't already accused me of," he said. Then the thought occurred to him that House might have been using the joke to mask what he really wanted to ask. "House…do you want me to stay with you tonight?"

Put so bluntly, House was tempted to deny that that was exactly what he wanted. But he'd already let Wilson in this far—it seemed silly to shut him out now. So he nodded, swallowing against the lump of raw emotion that had lodged itself in his throat.

House once again used Wilson as a crutch to get to his bedroom, but he was walking much easier now that the painkillers had kicked in. He climbed gingerly into bed and turned over onto his side—it was immediately evident that he wouldn't be sleeping on his back for the next few nights. Wilson tucked him in, which House thought was sweet, and then he turned off the light, went around to the other side of the bed and climbed in next to him.

House lay there blinking at his friend in the blue-grey darkness and Wilson's dark eyes blinked back at him. He was both terrified and comforted to have him there—terrified that he might not be able to stop himself from crying; comforted knowing that Wilson would take it in stride and not make it worse if he did.

Wilson carefully studied his friend's face in the dim light. He saw the panic and the need in those expressive blue eyes, and decided to act on his gut instinct. Slowly closing the gap between them, Wilson wrapped House in a loose hug. To his relief, House didn't shrink away. Instead, he pulled him in closer and laid his head on Wilson's chest.

Wilson planted a motherly kiss on the top of House's head, and then rested his cheek against his still-damp hair. When the tears started they didn't come in torrents or wracking sobs. The only indications that he was crying at all were the tension in his muscles and the telltale dampness soaking through his pyjama top where House's head lay. Wilson stroked tiny circles across his friend's shoulders until he felt him relax into a deep sleep. He lay staring up at the ceiling, knowing that he wasn't going to get a wink of sleep for the rest of the night, but thankful, nonetheless, that House had asked for his help.


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning Wilson woke up confused, partly because he couldn't actually recall falling asleep in the first place, and partly because House was gone. The confusion kept on coming when House appeared in the bedroom doorway fully dressed and ready to go.

"It's seven o'clock," said House. "Rise and shine, sleepy-head, I need a ride."

"A ride where?" asked Wilson, propping himself up on an elbow and rubbing his eyes. They felt like they'd been poached in their sockets, and if he felt this bad, he had no idea how it was House managed to look so…peppy. Especially after everything that had happened the night before.

"We're going cane shopping," House answered. "Know of any good early-morning cane shops?"

"None spring to mind," said Wilson. "Why the urgency? This couldn't wait until, oh I dunno, say eight o'clock?"

"Don't want to be late for work," said House, and he disappeared from the doorway before Wilson had a chance to sputter uselessly at him.

Wilson quickly got out of bed and followed House to the kitchen, where he was already sipping at an enormous mug of coffee. House's eyes scanned him from over the rim of his mug.

"Are you planning on wearing that?" he asked. "Don't get me wrong, I think your jammies are adorable, but that fashion trend went out with those teddy-bear backpacks. Don't you keep up with these things?"

Refusing to be evaded, Wilson crossed his arms and frowned at him. "I thought you said you weren't going back to work. You said you were faxing in your resignation first thing in the morning."

"I had a change of heart," said House casually. "I am allowed to do that, aren't I?"

"Yes, but after last night…"

"Go put on some clothes," said House, cutting him off mid-sentence. "There's a pair of your jeans in the bottom drawer of my dresser. You can borrow one of my shirts and whatever else you want."

Wilson decided to let it drop. If House didn't want to talk about it, that was okay for now. But he'd be keeping a close eye on him, nonetheless. He started back towards House's bedroom when his friend's words finally sank in. "Wait a minute…why do you have a pair of my jeans?"

"You don't remember?" asked House, his pale blue eyes wide. "I'm hurt—if you honestly don't remember, then I'm not going to tell you."

"Please—I get enough of that at home, I don't need it here, too," said Wilson and he wandered back to the bedroom. Sure enough, there was a pair of his jeans neatly folded in the bottom drawer of House's dresser. It really did bug him that he had no idea how they'd got there.

Wilson drove around, stopping at every pharmacy in a twenty-mile radius until they found one that was open and also sold canes; or, to be more specific, a cane that House deemed worthy of him. As they drove to Princeton-Plainsboro, Wilson would shoot the odd glance House's way, just in case he'd changed his mind again. But House seemed resolute; his cloak of imperviousness was fixed firmly in place. It was like nothing had happened at all—even the bruise on his jaw had all but vanished behind an extra day's growth of beard.

Wilson pulled up in front of the hospital's main entrance and watched House dry swallow a vicodin with his usual flair.

"Do you want me to come in with you?" asked Wilson.

House gave him a 'now why would I want you to do that' look and got out of the car with a painful grunt. Wilson winced, imagining how uncomfortable the car ride must have been for him, and for once he was kind of glad his friend had the painkillers. He waited until House had made it safely through the front doors before pulling away.

This was the part he had been dreading all morning…it was time to head back home. It was nearly eight-thirty, and Julie usually didn't leave for work until nine o'clock, so if he drove slowly enough, he might time it so they missed each other. Of course, that would only make things worse when she got home from work. There was no sense putting it off; he figured he might as well face the music before it became loud enough to deafen him.

As he pulled into his driveway, he saw Julie coming out the front door. She gave him a cold, thin-lipped glare as he got out of the car, which told him she hadn't failed to notice he was wearing House's clothes. Wilson shrugged back at her with an apologetic smile.

"Don't forget to put the roast in the oven at four-thirty," she said.

"Roast? What's the occasion?" asked Wilson, remembering too late that tonight was the night her parents were coming for dinner. "Right. Sorry."

Julie's lips thinned even more, if such a thing were possible. "And make yourself useful—the dishwasher's flooding again." And with that, she was gone.

Wilson sighed. He wished she'd just put him out of his misery and ask for a divorce. This daily erosion of their happiness had them both so thin-skinned that every little thing got on their nerves. So when a big thing came along the effect was positively acidic.

He spent the day fixing the dishwasher and cleaning an already spotless house, knowing all hell would break loose if Julie thought he'd been slacking off all day. But the entire time he kept expecting the phone to ring and to hear House on the other end, distraught and begging him to come get him. He had to restrain himself from phoning the hospital to check up on him.

When the phone finally did ring it was almost six o'clock. He assumed it would be House calling to get a ride home, so when he heard Cuddy's voice he felt a moment's panic.

"Is Greg alright?" he asked before she could get out more than a 'hello'.

"House is fine," she said, sounding both annoyed and amused. "More than fine, actually. I thought I'd call to give you the good news—you've got your job back. Vogler's gone."

"Why? What happened?" asked Wilson, almost afraid to find out. He had images of a big, Vogler-shaped corpse spread out under a thin sheet in the hospital morgue.

"Vogler moved to have me fired. I had a chat with the board and managed to persuade them that between House and Vogler, House was the lesser of two evils."

"You have no idea," Wilson mumbled. "How did House take the news? Have you told him yet?"

"I just came from his office," she answered. She paused a moment, then asked; "Wilson, is there something going on that you're not telling me about?"

"Why do you ask?" he countered cautiously, avoiding her question.

"You just seem unusually concerned about him," she said. "Is this about the fight he picked with Vogler in front of the clinic today?"

Oh God, he lost it at work, thought Wilson. "How bad was it?" he asked.

"I don't think I've ever seen House that angry before, which is saying something. He completely blew a gasket when Vogler pulled his patient from that clinical trial. Anyone else would've had to change their pants afterwards," said Cuddy. "But Vogler just laughed and shrugged him off, and that seemed to put an end to it."

"Mmm," said Wilson, filling the conversation gap while his mind busied itself with images of Vogler and House duking it out at the clinic. He knew the fight had been about a lot more than a just his cancer patient, and it worried him that Vogler had defeated him so easily. "Is he still in his office?" he asked.

"As far as I know," she answered.

"Can you do me a favour and tell him I'm coming to pick him up?"

"Alright," she said, but he could tell she was fishing for an explanation.

He wasn't about to give her one. "Great. Thanks," he said, and hung up. When he turned around, he nearly ran into Julie, who had somehow managed to sneak up behind him.

"Did I just hear you say you were picking someone up?" she asked, the furrow between her raised eyebrows providing more than enough punctuation. She knew exactly who the 'someone' was.

"I drove House to work this morning. How else is he supposed to get home?"

"He's a big boy. I bet he could figure it out," said Julie, her voice taking on an edge he'd become all too familiar with of late. "My parents will be here in half an hour."

"I know, and I'll be back in time, I swear," he said as he headed for the door. Only then did he realize he was still wearing his friend's t-shirt—hardly appropriate attire in the eyes of his in-laws. He quickly weighed his options. He could stay home, change into a jacket and tie and make Julie happy, or he could go and pick up Greg from the hospital. In his mind he kept remembering the way his friend had looked at him, lying in bed in the dark. House needed him; he trusted him. And hell, Julie was already pissed at him, so what difference did it make if he gave her one more reason?

* * *

It had been one hell of a day. House was in a lot more pain than usual, but he'd be damned if he'd let it show. An extra pill or two…well, who's counting, really…had made everyday things like leaning and sitting down bearable, but for the most part he'd tried to stay on his feet. By noon his right leg was bitching at him incessantly. And to make things worse, Foreman kept throwing accusatory looks his way over the 'Cameron quitting' issue. Without Wilson, he had no allies to turn to at the hospital.

The only thing that had been getting him through the day was the fact that, because of him, his patient might live long enough to see one or two of her son's birthdays. But then Vogler had happened. With one little phone call he'd effectively sentenced his patient to death, and stripped House of his usefulness as a doctor.

That was when he'd lost it. He'd hunted Vogler down and chewed him out in front of patients and staff alike. It felt good. It felt cathartic…until Vogler laughed in his face and dismissed him. It was then that House had realised he would never have the upper hand against Vogler.

The rest of the day had been pretty much a disaster. His patient did die, leaving behind a terrified husband to take care of their premature baby. The board would be meeting again to have him fired, and he had no way of defending himself. But until they'd physically booted his ass out of the hospital, he'd intended to do his job.

He'd caught Cuddy as she was heading into the boardroom and handed her the file on baby Olive, 'The Incredible Shrinking Vegan'. It would be his last act as a doctor at PPTH.

Or so he'd thought at the time.

It was now less than an hour later and he was back in his office, job secure, with Vogler nothing more than a page in the history books. And as an added bonus, his newly reinstated best friend and ally was coming to pick him up. For the first time since Vogler had reared his humungous bald head at the hospital he felt like things were looking up.

When the phone rang, he answered it with an almost cheery "Yup?"

The crackling static on the other end nearly whited out the sound of the man's voice, but House heard it clearly enough to instantly recognize it. "This isn't over. He said to tell you it's personal now. He meant it when he said he'd destroy you."

The line went dead, but it was several seconds before that fact registered in House's shocked brain. He slowly set the phone down, as if he was afraid it might turn on him. When a knock sounded on his glass door he nearly jumped out of his skin.

Wilson peered at him curiously from the hallway for a moment before letting himself in. "House—are you okay?"

"I'm fine—I didn't see you there," House answered dismissively.

"You don't look fine."

"Since when have I ever _looked_ fine?" he countered. "I just want to get out of here. Hospitals give me the creeps," he said, throwing in an exaggerated shudder for effect.

House remained silent the entire drive home, and Wilson knew it would be a mistake to try and draw him out of his shell. As he pulled up in front of his condo, House got out of the car. But when he noticed Wilson wasn't undoing his seatbelt to join him, he leaned back in through the window.

"Aren't you coming?" he asked.

Wilson's brown eyes frowned up at him in apology. "I would, but Julie's parents are coming over for dinner. I'm already late as it is."

House looked over his shoulder at his dark condo. It looked the same, as always, but tonight it seemed more malevolent somehow.

"I can call her; say I'll be late…" Wilson suggested, sensing his friend's nervousness.

House was tempted, but he knew that missing dinner with the in-laws would be a 'straw/camel's back' thing in Julie's books. "No. You go on. Have a nice slice of roast beef for me."

"How did you…? Never mind," said Wilson. "Are you sure you'll be okay?"

"'Course I'm sure," said House. "Now move it, before Julie decides to roast your weenie and serve that to her folks instead."

"Now that's a disturbing image," said Wilson. "All right, I'm off, then. But call me if you need anything."

House grunted in reply and backed away from the car. He watched his friend drive away, feeling a cold lump of dread forming in the pit of his stomach. His condo seemed to loom up above him, imposing and large.

Opening the door, House reached his hand inside and flicked on the lights before daring to set foot inside. Once in, he quickly locked the door and went room to room, turning on every single light along the way. He felt like a bit of an idiot, but at this point he didn't care. When he was finally satisfied that there were no murderers lurking in the shadows, he got comfortable on the couch and reached for the remote.

But just as he was about to turn on the T.V., his phone rang. The lump of ice in House's stomach churned over, sending out cold tendrils of nausea. He stared at the phone, willing it to shut up. Finally the answering machine fielded the call, and the tinny little speaker burst forth with the same crackling static he'd heard earlier in his office. No voice this time, but the message was clear…he was being watched.

House turned his eyes to the front window and saw that the drapes were still open. He cursed under his breath and got painfully to his feet. He limped over as quickly as possible and drew them closed, and as he did, he could swear he heard a dry, humourless chuckle coming from the static on the answering machine. Three limping steps later, he reached a shaking hand out and silenced the offending machine.

His heart was pumping so hard it hurt his chest. He picked up the phone, hitting 'speed dial 1', and heard the familiar tune of Wilson's home phone number beeping out through the receiver.

Julie picked up, and for a moment House was afraid he wouldn't be able to speak—his mouth had completely dried up. He heard her annoyance as she asked who was there, and knew she was about to hang up.

"Julie, it's me, Greg," he said, finding his voice at last. "I need to talk to James. It's important."

"He's not home yet," came the curt response. The sound of clinking dishes and muffled voices in the background told him that they'd started eating without him.

"Can you have him call me when he gets in?" asked House.

"We have company tonight, House," she said, her voice brittle.

"And I have a crazed rapist stalking me," House answered bluntly.

"He's busy tonight," she said, ignoring what she'd assumed was his flippant remark. "He'll call you tomorrow." And she hung up.

House blinked at the phone like it had personally insulted him and hit the redial button. Not surprisingly, Julie didn't answer. He parked the phone back in its cradle and stood, lost, in the middle of his own living room.

He stood there watching the minutes tick by on his watch, waiting until he knew Wilson would be at home. Then he hit redial again, knowing that Julie couldn't just let it ring with Wilson there. Sure enough, he soon heard Julie's crisp voice on the other end.

* * *

Wilson had just finished changing into something a little less comfortable when he heard the phone ring. He trotted down the stairs and entered the dining room in time to hear his wife say, "we're busy," into the phone and hang up.

"Who was that?" he asked, and received identical reproachful looks from Julie and her parents. So that's where she gets it from, he thought to himself.

"Telemarketer," said Julie with a forced, polite little laugh. "They always seem to know when you're sitting down to dinner." Her breezy answer rubbed him the wrong way—she was either putting on a show for the sake of her parents, or she was hiding something from him.

Wilson sat down at the table and started loading his plate with the scraps left over in the serving dishes. One bite of roast was all he managed to eat before his beeper went off. All eyes turned to him in unison and it was like facing a firing squad.

"Sorry, I've got to get this," he said. The little display showed two simple words: 'come back'. Wilson excused himself from the table and picked up the phone, dialling Cuddy's number, in case Julie thought to hit redial. Her voice mail picked up.

"Uh-huh? … Yes, I understand… No, of course I don't mind, Dr. Cuddy. I'll be right there." He hung up the phone and turned to face Julie and his in-laws. Julie had a murderous glint in her eyes, and if her parents hadn't been there she would have torn a strip off him.

"I really am sorry," said Wilson. "But this is an emergency." Technically speaking he was only half lying—this was an emergency… just not a medical one. He left quickly for fear of being hit by flying daggers.

* * *

House saw the headlights of a car slow and stop in front of his condo and risked a peek through his drawn curtains. The relief he felt seeing Wilson step out of his car was palpable and it gave him pause for thought. Even as a child he'd never felt this needy, this…vulnerable…and there wasn't another soul on Earth he'd rather have with him than Wilson. He didn't know what that meant, but for the moment he was willing to forgo analysis and simply be thankful his friend had come. House unlocked the door, ushered Wilson inside, and hastily locked the door behind him.

"That wife of yours is a real peach…or something that nearly rhymes with it," said House. "It's a good thing you never let her touch your beeper."

Wilson narrowed his eyes. "I'm gonna pretend you meant that in the strictly literal sense." When House didn't even attempt a comeback, Wilson started to worry. "What happened?" he asked.

House took a couple of long, limping strides across the room and hit playback on the answering machine. Wilson listened to the crackling sounds coming from the little speaker. When it ended he looked at House, who was watching him expectantly.

"Is that supposed to mean something?" asked Wilson.

"Of course it means something. It means I'm being watched," said House. But the look in Wilson's eyes said that wasn't enough of an explanation, so he decided to start from the beginning. He filled Wilson in on the phone call he'd received at the hospital, and the threat Vogler had made a few days earlier.

"He said he would destroy you?" asked Wilson. "And you never thought to tell anyone?"

"If I went crying to the authorities every time someone threatened me I'd have to set up a cot at the local precinct."

"Okay; granted that's true," Wilson agreed. "But you have to get the police involved now."

"Why? So they can come over and listen to my scary static?" said House, his eyes going wide with mock horror.

"It might not mean much on its own, but if you tell them the whole story…"

House's eyes darkened as if someone had dimmed the lights behind them. The conversation was over. Anything Wilson had to say would just bounce off House's shield of imperviousness. Wilson sighed and changed tactics.

"Have you had dinner yet?" he asked.

"Not hungry," said House, sitting down gingerly on the couch. The pills came out automatically, and two of them found their way down his throat.

Wilson shook his head. "You have to eat something—and I'm starved. Do you want to order in?"

"It would be a waste, what with only one of us eating," said House, although the real reason he didn't want delivery was that he couldn't bear the thought of some stranger knocking on his door tonight. "If you're hungry, there's food in the kitchen. Knock yourself out. And get me a beer while you're in there," he added as Wilson took his advice and headed for the kitchen.

Wilson returned, a short ten minutes later, with two bowls of steaming chicken noodle soup and no beer.

"I can see how you'd confuse 'get me a beer' with 'get me a bowl of soup'. They sound so much alike," House quipped.

"Just shut up and eat it," said Wilson, imbuing the words with more kindness than they had any right to.

House grudgingly accepted the bowl, allowing the salty steam of the broth to waft up to his face. To him, soup was comfort food, and chicken noodle…well, that was the stuff Mom pulled out on those really bad occasions. Kind of like a culinary 'kiss it better'. A smile flickered across his face as he looked at Wilson. His choice in soups had been no accident. Wilson looked back at him with just the tiniest raise of an eyebrow—acknowledgement of his role as surrogate Mom for the evening.

They were both yawning at the T.V. by the time their bowls were emptied. The meaningless drone of football and commercials had worked its magic, lulling them into a state of numb complacency. Wilson was dozing off, his feet stretched out on the coffee table, his head doing one of those slow tip/sudden jerk things that never let him fully fall asleep, when House shook him by the shoulder.

"Fine company you are," said House. Wilson looked up at him apologetically, but House stopped him before he could say anything. "Don't worry. You can make it up to me by staying over tonight. As bodyguards go, you're no Lou Ferrigno, but you'll do in a pinch."

Wilson thought about it for a second. His options were to stay here and sleep on the couch, or to go home…and, well, sleep on the couch. It wasn't a tough choice—at least here he was welcome.

"All right. But I'll have to borrow something to sleep in."

"I'll do you one better," said House. "Second drawer down in my dresser," he added, nodding towards his bedroom.

Curious, Wilson went to check it out. Pulling open the second drawer of House's dresser, Wilson shook his head in disbelief—a pair of his pyjamas was neatly folded next to a small stack of underwear and a few pairs of socks that he also recognized as his. He turned to find House standing in the doorway looking smug.

"What do you do, break into my house at night and steal my clothes?" asked Wilson.

"You still don't remember?" asked House. "Too bad. It must be driving you nuts. By the way, I call dibs on the bathroom."

Wilson used the time alone to change into his P.J.s, and he was just digging through House's linen closet to find a couple of warm blankets and a pillow for the couch when House reappeared.

"What're you doing?" asked House, like he was chastising a five year old.

"Uh—I'm getting my bed ready," said Wilson matter-of-factly.

House rolled his eyes. "What good are you as a bodyguard if you're not even in the same room? C'mon," he said, and he pulled a pillow down from the top shelf, carrying it under his arm down the hall to his bedroom.

Wilson followed him back to the bedroom and watched House fluff up the pillow and place it next to his on the bed. No clarification needed—House wanted him to sleep with him. Not just in the same room, but in the same bed. Again.

Something deep in his gut told Wilson the wise thing to do would be to refuse and go sleep on the couch, but he couldn't. House was scared. He would never go so far as to admit it out loud, but his actions spoke for him. And if House needed him close to feel safe, then Wilson intended to be there for him.

Wilson made quick work of turning off all the lights House had left on, and got ready for bed. He was only mildly surprised to find a brand new toothbrush and a fresh tube of Colgate waiting for him in the bathroom—they were his brands, not House's, judging by the half flattened tube of Crest sitting next to the sink. By the time he returned to the bedroom, House was already in bed, lying on his side just as he had the night before.

Wilson hesitated briefly before turning off the bedroom light; with the curtains drawn, it was pitch black. He had to feel his way around to the other side of the bed, and when he finally found his way under the blankets he heard House's sigh of relief, like he'd been holding his breath waiting for him to get in. The next thing he knew he was being pulled into a tight hug, his back pressed up against House's chest like he was a giant teddy bear.

It was a little more closeness than Wilson had anticipated, but he went along with it, telling himself it was only because House needed it. But in a strange way he thought it was kind of nice. It had been a long time since anyone had cuddled with him like this. Julie had never been the cuddly type, which bothered him more than he cared to admit. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more he realized just how much he missed simply being hugged. It felt good—even if it was House doing the hugging.

Then he found himself wondering if House was always this cuddly in bed, or if his recent trauma had brought it out in him. The thought then crossed his mind that he'd really like to find out, and suddenly sleep was the farthest thing from his mind. And so, for the second night in a row, Wilson lay blinking sleeplessly into the darkness as House slept soundly next to him.


	3. Chapter 3

There was no pain in the dream; just a tormenting loop of sounds and images that seemed to repeat in slow motion. The hard, rhythmic grunting; his own splayed hand on the cherry-red hood of his car; the harsh, rasping voice counting off each lash of the cane; back to the hard grunting again, and the way the cherry-red hood rocked under their weight as his splayed hand grasped at the shiny, smooth surface, desperate for purchase.

He heard someone calling his name, and he heard a pathetic whimpering—felt it emanating from his own throat—but he couldn't escape the dream.

"Greg! Greg!" Wilson would have shaken House awake, but he didn't want to frighten him. He saw his friend's eyes rolling beneath their lids and his body twitching as he tried to wake up. "Greg!" he repeated more loudly. He risked putting a hand on his friend's shoulder.

House jerked away from the touch and bolted upright. He had a panicked look in his eyes, and he was breathing like he'd just sprinted a mile full tilt. It took him a moment to realize where he was and who was with him. Slowly his breathing returned to normal, and the cold sweat that covered his whole body started to make him shiver.

Wilson wrapped his arm around House's shoulders, absorbing some of the chill. "Do you want to talk about it?" he asked.

"It was just a dream," said House.

"Okay…but it was one hell of a dream," Wilson argued. "It might help if you talked about it."

"What's to talk about? It happened. It's over, and there's nothing you can do to fix it. Unless you've been holding out on me and you've got a time machine tucked away in your attic."

"No time machine—unless a trunk full of bell-bottoms and a stack of 8-track tapes counts." Wilson was rewarded with a tenuous half-smile. "You're right," said Wilson, seriously. "I can't change what happened to you. I wish to God I could."

House stared down at his clasped hands. "I wish you could, too," he said quietly and flashed a sidelong glance at Wilson.

After a moment's awkwardness, House suggested that there was no sense trying to go back to sleep since they only had a couple of hours until they had to get up anyway. So, with a blanket stolen from House's bed, the two of them spent the remainder of the night huddled together on the couch, playing some of the more aggressively violent games on House's Playstation.

Seven-thirty finally rolled around and Wilson put down his controller, indulging in a good, long stretch before getting up off the couch.

"You can't just abandon me in the middle of a fight," said House. "Sit your ass back down and take out the guy in the alley."

"It's time to get ready for work," said Wilson. "You don't want me to be late my first day back, do you?"

"You make it sound like you've been gone for years," said House, but Wilson fixed him with one of his softly scolding looks. "Fine. I'll get ready, but this means I'll have to sneak into my office—you know I can't have people seeing me come in early; it might set an unwanted precedent."

"I take it that means I'm giving you a ride?" asked Wilson.

"Unless you want me to walk," House answered, his eyes glued to the violence on the screen as his fingers madly worked the controller.

"…Or you could take the 'vette," Wilson suggested.

A flash of cherry-red hood invaded House's thoughts, and his on-screen persona suffered a mortal blow. "Can't," he said. "It depreciates every time I drive it."

Wilson scoffed. "That's the lamest excuse for bumming a ride I've ever heard. If I had a car like that…"

"Let it drop, Wilson," House warned, and there was something in his voice that instantly silenced his friend.

Wilson didn't know what had just happened, but he knew he'd somehow touched a nerve and he backed off. "All right, I'll drive," he said. "But I can't stay here tonight—at least not if I want to stay married."

House mumbled something under his breath, and although Wilson couldn't hear what it was, he knew that somewhere out there Julie's ears were burning.

* * *

Wilson spent his first few hours at work unpacking all the boxes he had packed only two days earlier. His back was turned to the door as he started to hang Julie's photo on the wall, and when a not-so-subtle throat clearing came from his doorway he was startled enough to drop the picture. It fell face-first onto the floor and he heard the muffled sound of glass shattering.

"Sorry, Wilson," said Dr. Cuddy from the doorway. She thought she heard him mutter the words 'only appropriate', but since he obviously hadn't intended for her to hear him, she ignored it. "Can I give you a hand cleaning that up?" she asked.

"You know…it's no big deal. Really," he said and swivelled his chair around so he could sit down.

Cuddy tilted her head at him, taking in the drawn expression on his face and the rumpled clothes. She chewed the inside of her cheek, putting the pieces of the puzzle together.

"Was there something I can do for you?" asked Wilson, working hard at being polite, despite his exhaustion. Two nights of sleep deprivation and emotional strain were taking their toll on him.

"I was going to ask you about the strange message you left on my voicemail, but I think I just figured it out," she said, a knowing look on her face as she crossed her arms and studied his reaction.

Wilson leaned back in his chair and looked up at her warily. "And what was it you figured out?" he asked.

"You were out somewhere or with someone last night and you were using me as your alibi," said Cuddy. "Don't worry, your secret's safe with me. But if I'm going to be an accomplice, then I want to know what it is I'm helping you cover up."

Wilson squirmed slightly in his seat, rubbing the back of his neck as he attempted to think of a plausible explanation for his behaviour that didn't involve infidelity on his part.

Thankfully, Foreman chose that moment to peek his head into Wilson's office. "Dr. Wilson, House said he needs to see you. It's urgent."

Wilson's relief at being interrupted was instantly replaced with a sharp pang of fear. "Excuse me," he said to Cuddy, and followed Foreman down the hall to House's office.

Although he wasn't sure what he was expecting to see when he got there, it certainly wasn't the sight that met his eyes as he entered House's office. House was leaning back against his desk looking vastly relaxed—a double-vicodin smile gracing his lean features. Chase was there, looking equally jovial, and the reason soon became clear as House pulled out a nearly empty bottle of champagne and poured the dregs into two mugs sitting on his desk. He and Chase held similar mugs in their hands, and it was obvious they were a few drinks ahead of them already.

"…And there's more where that came from," said House, nodding to a full bottle on the table by the window.

"What's the occasion?" asked Wilson.

"How about… 'Ding dong, the witch is dead'?"said House. He saw the worry in Wilson's expressive brown eyes and had the sudden urge to hug the stuffing out of him. "Come on, Wilson—raise a glass…to a Vogler-free work environment."

"To a Vogler-free work environment," Chase and Foreman echoed, raising their mugs.

Wilson gave in to the peer pressure and lifted his own mug. "To a Vogler-free work environment," he toasted, and saw a look of thanks flash briefly in House's eyes. What the hell, he thought; one drink wouldn't kill him. He allowed himself to relax and enjoy the moment for what it was—the celebration of a minor victory. Although the war still raged on, they'd at least won the battle, and that had to be worth something.

* * *

Wilson gained a new respect for House's skills in avoiding Cuddy. It was not as easy as it looked. Still, he managed to avoid her until it was time to go home. He had no choice but to go into his office to get his jacket and keys, and she was there waiting for him, sitting at his desk like she owned the place. Which, he supposed, was partly true, in that she paid his salary.

His shoulders sagged in defeat, and he must have looked pretty pathetic, because Dr. Cuddy relented. "Alright. You don't have to tell me who it is you're seeing. But do me a favour…if it's someone at the hospital, try and keep it discreet." Her grey eyes pierced his, ensuring that he got her message—'don't make me look bad'. Wilson nodded, relieved to be getting off so easily.

When she was gone, he slipped out of his lab coat and into his jacket, and headed over to House's office. His team had already gone home for the day, but House was still there, poring over the MRI scans of his latest medical mystery.

"Are you almost ready to head home?" asked Wilson, coming up to stand next to his friend.

"Any time you are," House replied.

Wilson studied the MRI for a minute. "Encephalitis?" he asked.

House gave him the same look he often gave Foreman or Chase. "Would I be bothering if it was something so boring?" asked House.

"Only you would find encephalitis boring," said Wilson, casually resting a hand on House's shoulder. He heard House take in a sharp breath at the touch, but he didn't pull away, and Wilson took that as a good sign. "Did you get any phone calls today?" he asked.

"Nada," said House.

"Maybe it was just a scare tactic," said Wilson.

"Maybe," House agreed, although neither of them believed it.

They spent the ride back to House's place discussing Cuddy and the various creative ways House had managed to evade her over the years. But as they drew closer to his home, House became quiet. Wilson pulled up in front of the condo and looked over at his friend who was staring blankly out the windshield.

"We're here," said Wilson. Still, House stared straight ahead, refusing to budge. "You're home," Wilson said, trying to get his attention.

"Come in with me," said House.

"House…"

"Just for a minute," House added, turning the full force of his large blue eyes on Wilson.

Wilson nodded; how could he refuse? He followed House inside, trailing behind him as he searched every room and every closet, turned on every light. And they ended up where they'd started, at the front door.

"Well, I guess this is goodnight," said Wilson, making a move for the door.

"Don't go," said House. "Stay here tonight."

Wilson sighed; he hated turning down the request. "I told you this morning I couldn't stay."

"I didn't think you were serious."

"I can't stay, House. If I don't go home tonight I'll be signing divorce papers in the morning."

"Maybe that would be for the best," said House, his blue eyes snapping up defiantly to meet Wilson's.

Wilson checked his temper, reminding himself that his friend was under a great deal of stress. "I know you didn't mean that," he said. "And you knew I'd have to go home sooner or later. Julie…"

"There you go bringing Julie into this again. It's always about Julie," House said bitterly.

"She's my _wife_," Wilson argued.

"Yeah, but she doesn't need you as much as I do!" House shouted tempestuously, bringing his cane down onto the hardwood floor with a loud thump. "She doesn't _love _you as much as I do!"

Wilson stood there, dumbfounded at the explosive declaration, and watched as his wildly breathing friend did some emotional back-pedalling. Within seconds House had composed himself, his shield dropped solidly in place once more. Without a word, he limped over to the door and held it open.

"House…" Wilson began. But, in truth, he had no idea what to say, and the word hung in the air uselessly.

Finally, House took pity on his speechless friend. "Go on. Go see Julie," he said with a childish scoff in his voice. "Go on; I'll be fine," he added softly, coming as close apologising as he would ever get.

Wilson reluctantly obeyed, taking leave of his friend. He felt shell-shocked—House's words replaying in his mind like a skipping record. He knew he shouldn't read too much into it; House was upset—you say things you don't mean when you're upset. But then, you also say things that have been on your mind, too, thought Wilson, and that made him wonder all the more.

* * *

House was lying in bed, but he wasn't sleeping. The red, digital readout on his alarm clock told him that he'd been lying there for almost three hours. He watched the little red colon flash out the seconds until the clock read an even 1:30. Deciding that sleep would not be forthcoming any time soon, he got out of bed and hobbled down to the kitchen to get a glass of water.

He ran the tap, letting the water get nice and icy cold, then filled a tall glass to the top. He was just about to take his first sip when the phone rang, the shock of it making him lose his grip on the glass. It slipped out of his hand, smashing on the tile floor at his feet.

"Shit!" he exclaimed, flinching as the phone continued to ring in the other room. He carefully stepped around the shards of broken glass, his bare feet wet and cold from the spilled water. In the living room the answering machine had picked up. House inched closer to it, not wanting to hear the message, but needing to nonetheless.

It was the static again, and for a moment he thought that might be all there was going to be. But after a long pause the familiar and dreaded voice spoke: "It's sweet that your buddy Wilson is trying to help. But he'll never understand what you're going through unless he's gone through the same thing. I can help him understand, if you want."

Furious, House snatched up the phone. "So help me, if you go near him I'll kill you, you son of a bitch!" he yelled into the receiver. But the line had already gone dead.

Without another thought, House dropped the phone, grabbed his car keys from the phone table and headed out the door. His heart slammed against his ribs as he neared the red corvette. The memories it stirred up made him want to vomit—made him want to run. But the thought of that man touching Wilson gave him more than enough incentive to overcome his fear and get in the car.

As he raced through the streets at dangerous speeds, House realised that he should have called Wilson to warn him, and he cursed himself for making such a stupid mistake. But he was more than halfway there, now, so there was no sense in turning back. He could only hope he wasn't too late.

He braked hard in front of Wilson's house and was relieved to see that everything looked normal. House got out of the car and limped painfully to the front door, wishing he'd thought to grab his cane in his mad rush to leave his place. Not only would it have made walking faster, but it would also make a damn fine weapon—something he knew from personal experience.

House rummaged through the potted plants by the door for a key, because even though he knew Wilson was too smart to hide a key there, Julie seemed the type… House smiled grimly as his long fingers closed around a plastic-feeling rock, wondering briefly how she thought a fake rock in a flowerpot was going to fool anybody. He let himself in quietly and locked the door behind him.

Everything was still. There was no sign that anyone (aside from himself) had broken in, and it appeared that Wilson wasn't in any immediate danger. Still, he figured it wouldn't hurt to give the place a once-over just in case.

Getting through the place without his cane was slow work, but he made a thorough job of it, checking every hiding place and possible entrance from the basement up, until the only room left was Wilson's bedroom. House held his breath as he opened the door, bracing himself in case his psycho stalker was in there ready to pounce.

All was quiet in the dark room. In the bed he could see Julie's blonde head, and the lump on the side of the bed nearest the window was definitely Wilson. Neither of them had woken up from the sounds of his search, and it made House irrationally angry. Couldn't they sense that they were in danger? He had half a mind to yell at them to wake up. Then a horrible thought struck him—what if they hadn't woken up because they couldn't? What if he'd been too late after all?

House's mouth went instantly dry as little jolts of panic shot through him. He limped with trepidation around to the other side of the room, where the moonlight streaming in through the window threw its cold white light on the figure in the bed. House drew closer, until he could see the gentle rise and fall of Wilson's chest as he slept. He sighed in relief as he watched his blissfully somnolent friend.

He had no idea how long he'd been standing there staring at Wilson, but it was long enough to come to two important conclusions. The first was that Wilson had never been in danger. Vogler was too smart to do anything to Wilson—if the hospital's golden boy of oncology came under attack, even Vogler's vast sums of money might not be enough to keep his name clean. No, the phone call had been a diversion to get him out of his condo. The second conclusion was that the diversion wouldn't have worked if his feelings for Wilson hadn't been so strong.

Even though he was pretty sure his condo was being ransacked at that very moment (hell, he'd even left the door unlocked for them), he couldn't leave Wilson's side. He also couldn't just stand there and watch him sleep. He needed some company. What he wanted was for Wilson to wake up, but he didn't want the Ice Queen to wake up with him.

House leaned in close to Wilson's face and blew into his hair, ruffling it. Wilson twitched, but he didn't wake up, so House blew harder. This time Wilson's hand came up to shoo away whatever was bugging him, but he slept on. House kept at it until Wilson finally cracked an eye open. Luckily, House reacted fast enough to clamp a hand over Wilson's mouth before he could shout out.

"Shh," House hissed, frowning.

Wilson's heart eventually climbed down from his throat where it had lodged itself, and he hissed back: "House! What are you doing here?"

House didn't answer; he simply nodded towards the door and hobbled away, knowing with absolute certainty that Wilson would follow him. Out in the hall, he waited, and a few minutes later his friend appeared, his nerves in as ruffled a state as his hair.

"What's going on?" asked Wilson, still whispering. "How did you get in?"

"There was a plastic rock in the planter with my name all over it," said House.

"You didn't answer my question," said Wilson.

"That's not entirely true—I answered one of your questions," said House. "And I would have answered the other one if you'd given me a chance."

"Alright…so what's going on, then?"

"I got another phone call."

Wilson was suddenly very awake. "What did he say?"

"What he said isn't important. What _is_ important is that he was trying to get me out of my house, and it worked," said House, his eyes shifted away from Wilson's as he spoke.

"Why would he want you out of your house?" asked Wilson.

"I don't know—burglary? Vandalism? Bomb? Or maybe he's decided to redo the place in spring colours."

"House, this is serious."

"Which is why I'm not laughing," House replied. "Can I stay here tonight?"

Wilson briefly glanced back towards his bedroom before answering. "Of course you can stay. I'll make up the guest room." He'd already envisioned the blowout he and Julie would have about this in the morning, and it wasn't going to be pretty. As it was, she'd come close to kicking him out when he'd got home from work. Their precarious truce wouldn't hold up against another 'incident'.

House watched as his friend fretted over sheets and pillowcases, basically going out of his way to make his unexpected guest comfortable for the night. When he was done, they both stood back and admired his work.

"Looks wonderful," said House. "Now let's get in and mess it up."

Wilson's mouth dropped open. "House, I can't…"

"What if I have another nightmare?" said House, with just the right mix of sincerity and mischief in his eyes for Wilson to realize he was being manipulated. Normally Wilson would have at least put up a token fight before giving in to House, but under the circumstances he didn't have the heart.

House knew he'd won even before Wilson conceded defeat. "I get the right side," he called out and started for that side of the bed.

That was when Wilson noticed his friend's bare feet. They were dirty, and the right one looked like it had been bleeding. "What were you doing running around barefoot?" asked Wilson.

"I'm going through a hippie phase," said House. Wilson raised an eyebrow at him. "I was in a bit of a hurry to get here," House admitted grudgingly. "Now can we get some sleep? It's way past my bedtime."

Wilson shook his head—he wanted to know what had happened to make House drop everything and come running to him, but he wouldn't be getting any more information out of him tonight. Resignedly, Wilson wandered over to the other side of the bed and got under the covers. He lay staring up at the ceiling, pretending not to notice his friend shifting closer to him in the bed. He wasn't really all that surprised when House manhandled him into the same position they'd slept in the night before, clutching him against his chest for all he was worth.

House nestled up against Wilson's back, his arm wrapped tightly around the other man's waist. He realized a psychologist would probably have a field day with his behaviour, but he couldn't give a rat's ass. Wilson was here, and he was safe. He nudged a little bit closer until his nose was less than an inch from the back of Wilson's neck. As he breathed in, he could smell the warm, slightly musky scent of Wilson's skin. It was, without a doubt, the most comforting thing he'd ever smelled. He lay there breathing him in for a long while, until he felt compelled to get just a little bit closer.

Wilson felt House's hot breath stirring the hairs at the back of his neck. It tickled, but it wasn't entirely…unpleasant. Then suddenly it wasn't just hot breath any more—he felt the brush of stubble, and then the press of soft lips against his skin. A surge of fear—or was it excitement—pulsed through him, setting every nerve on fire.

He didn't know what to do…or, rather, he knew what he _should_ do, but he wasn't sure what he _wanted_ to do. He lay there, virtually paralysed, as House's thumb started tracing random circles across his belly, sparking a new fire a little further south of that location. He could still feel House's lips kissing the back of his neck, not demanding, but exploring.

Wilson's breath hitched in his throat as he wondered what would happen if he were to turn around. Would House back away? Or would those soft, exploring lips continue to set him on fire?

House's hand was getting bolder, straying under Wilson's pyjama top to touch bare skin. Wilson knew he should put a stop to it—House was in a bad place, and it would be wrong to take advantage of him. But he also knew that he'd let it go too far already. It was no longer a simple matter of pulling away and pretending nothing had happened.

Taking a deep breath for courage, Wilson twisted around within the confines of House's embrace. He had planned to say something, but the look in House's eyes took his breath away. He'd never seen that look before—not on House, anyway—and it left him speechless. The shield was gone. Completely gone. And Greg House was laid bare before him.

House lay there, losing himself in Wilson's eyes, until he felt the moment was right. Then he brought his hand up to stroke his friend's cheek, and as Wilson's eyes fluttered shut, House was struck by how incredibly beautiful he was. He let his fingers linger, memorizing the different textures with his fingertips—the roughness of stubble along the jaw, the smooth contours of the cheek, the silky landscape of the lips. And then he slid his hand around to cradle the back of his friend's neck, slowly drawing him closer.

There was a moment's shocked hesitation as their lips touched for the first time—a moment when things could have gone either way. But the need and curiosity they shared won out, and soon the timid pressing of lips graduated into a real kiss.

Wilson had no idea where this was coming from. He'd never so much as looked at another man, yet he couldn't deny the aching need he was feeling for House. And the kiss just felt right, somehow. The way they seemed to fit together, the way they already seemed to know each other's moves, their tongues playing off each other as if the kiss was simply an extension of the casual banter they exchanged on a daily basis.

Wilson couldn't deny that kissing his best friend felt good—better than good; it felt incredible. But his body was starting to cry out for more. He wasn't really thinking as he allowed his hands to roam over his friend's body. Shoulder, arm, neck and chest…he mapped the contours of House's body with tender urgency, chasing up his t-shirt to get at the flesh beneath. Neck and back, thigh and rump… And that was when everything came to a crashing halt.

House pushed him away sharply, more out a knee-jerk reaction than from anger or fear. Wilson was confused for a second, until he realized what he'd done.

"God! House, I'm s…"

"Say you're sorry and I'll kick you," House warned. He was pretty sure Wilson was more upset about it than he was. "I'm the one who started it. I'm just not ready…for that. Not yet."

Wilson still looked like he wanted to burst into apology, so House silenced him by pulling him in close, nestling the younger man's head under his chin.

"Relax," House grumbled deep in his throat. "I'm okay." He rubbed the back of Wilson's neck, and felt him gradually relax against him. House let out a soft, dry chuckle, and Wilson craned his neck to look up at him.

"What is it?" he asked.

"I was just thinking that it's probably for the best; for tonight, I mean. You need your beauty sleep—you look like hell."

"Uh…thanks?" said Wilson.

"Don't mention it," House replied and planted a kiss on Wilson's forehead.

Sleep came quickly for Wilson. He was worn raw by the events of the last few days, and even the eye-opening revelations of the last half-hour couldn't combat his need for rest. For the first time in days, he got a good, sound night's sleep, and in the morning, as consciousness slowly crept up on him, he felt House's arm around him and he smiled.

His smile quickly vanished, however,when he heard a gasp, and he opened his eyes to see Julie standing in the doorway. She had an odd expression on her face—a peculiar mix of dismay, shock, and righteous superiority.

"You'd better get up," she said mechanically. "You'll be late for work."

Before Wilson could say anything, she was gone.

"Good morning, sunshine," he heard House say from behind him, and he groaned. It was going to be one hell of a day.


	4. Chapter 4

James had gotten dressed and both he and House were coming down the stairs together, making it two against one, which, in Julie's mind, was completely unfair. She glowered at them and got the expected contrite response from her husband. House, however, seemed unfazed by the whole situation, and that pissed her off even more. She couldn't believe he had the nerve to show his face at all.

In the few minutes she'd had alone since her discovery, Julie had made a decision. James was no longer her husband, and as soon as she possibly could, she would obtain the paperwork to make it official. In a way, she was relieved. She'd been miserable for well over a year, watching the man she loved gradually lose interest in her. It hurt, and she'd become bitter, and she hated what he'd reduced her to.

From the way James was looking at her, she knew he was expecting another yelling match. She just didn't have the energy for it. And she honestly didn't care enough anymore.

"Coffee?" she asked them, getting surprised looks out of both of them. Good, she thought, for once she'd managed to catch the unflappable House off guard.

"Julie, I know what you saw must have looked pretty bad, but…"

Julie and House both turned to look at him expectantly, waiting to hear what kind of excuse he could possibly come up with.

"Oh, hell," he mumbled. "It looked like what it was. Julie, I'm so sorry." There was no way those words were going to be enough to put things right this time, and they all knew it.

"I could go for a coffee about now," said House, getting scowls from the other two. "Right. I'll just help myself then, shall I?"

Julie couldn't bear it any longer. "I want you out," she said.

"Who? Me?" asked House, busy filling the coffee carafe with water from the sink.

Julie ignored him and addressed James. "Go pack whatever you need for tonight. You can come back for the rest when I'm at work tomorrow."

"Actually, I already have everything I need at Greg's place," said Wilson.

Julie felt another stab in her heart, and she wondered just how long this had been going on right in front of her. She'd thought she was pretty astute, but all this time she'd been expecting 'the other woman'. She'd never once suspected House as a threat. Now, not only was she in pain, but she also felt like a fool. She turned her back on James, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry.

She was aware of movement behind her. James was trying to make his escape before she turned around again. She had no problem with that; but from the sounds of it, he was having a problem with it.

"House!" Wilson said in a stage whisper, "Would you forget the stupid coffee? I'll buy you one on the way to work."

* * *

They took Wilson's car, even though House's Corvette was blocking the driveway and Wilson had to move it. Remembering the last conversation they'd had on the subject, Wilson knew better than to ask why.

They had to go to House's place, even though neither of them wanted to deal with whatever was waiting for them there. House needed his clothes, his cane, and most importantly (to House, at least), his Vicodin. A dark mood had descended upon both of them as they drove, each consumed by their own personal pain.

Somehow, over the course of a single week, Wilson had managed to destroy his third marriage. He suddenly found himself despised and homeless, and for what? What was it between him and House, exactly? Had he ruined things with Julie over a friend's misplaced affection? Wilson had no idea what was going on inside House's head. Looking at him now, there was no indication that he felt any differently towards him today than he had the day before. And Wilson really didn't want to confront his own feelings. He'd never been more confused and off balance in his life.

Wilson pulled up in front of House's condo. It was intact and unburned, which was a good sign, but appearances could be deceiving, and Wilson had no intention of letting House walk in there alone. He got out of the car, went around to the passenger side and helped House get to his feet.

"Looks safe enough," said House with a hint of reservation in his voice. "You go first."

"Thanks," said Wilson wryly. The door was unlocked, and he pushed it open apprehensively. No bombs exploded in his face. No guns were aimed at his head. No knife-wielding Ninjas came screaming at him from the dark recesses of the condo. He let out the breath he'd been holding and proceeded to go in, with House sticking close behind him.

House had been expecting…something. But everything was exactly as he'd left it, right down to the broken glass on the kitchen floor. Nothing had been moved, let alone stolen or vandalized.

"Of course, your better burglars will clean up after themselves," said Wilson.

House cocked his head, eyeing his living room suspiciously. Something was off…he just couldn't put his finger on what it was. Still, he knew someone had been there. He could feel it; it was like his home had been violated. He found his cane leaning up against the piano where he'd left it, and he grabbed it, making a beeline for his bedroom. Wilson followed, watching from the doorway as his friend went through the room looking for some indication that intruders had been there.

"Nothing," said House, frustrated.

"Maybe you were wrong—maybe the reason he called was just to rattle your nerves," said Wilson.

"Huh," House grunted, monosyllabically acknowledging the possibility that his friend might be right.

"You'd better get dressed—we're already late for work," said Wilson.

"Yes, dear," said House with mock servility.

Wilson rolled his eyes at him and ducked out of the room, leaving him to get ready for the day. House relaxed a little and gathered his clothes—t-shirt, socks, underwear, jeans and jacket—and laid them out on his bed. He desperately wanted a shower, but Wilson was right; they were already woefully late for work, even by House's standards. He quickly changed, grimacing at the ache in his leg and from the fresh bruises on his ass as he pulled on his jeans.

The Vicodin in his medicine cabinet was calling out to him, and a close encounter of the toothbrush kind couldn't hurt either. So House headed to the bathroom. Closing himself in, his thoughts turned to Wilson, and he actually started to hum—something he hadn't done in a long time. As he washed his hands and face, he felt warmed by those thoughts.

Wilson.

It was unexpected, but he had to admit that his feelings for the man had definitely changed. He was not the kind of person to invest his emotions lightly. Until now, Stacy had been the only one he'd ever felt this deeply for. And what astounded him even more, was that Wilson had welcomed the attention. But, then, it might be that Wilson had reacted out of sheer big-heartedness—unable to turn down his advances because he couldn't bear to hurt his feelings.

That thought put a stop to his humming, and suddenly that Vicodin was calling really loudly. He yanked open the medicine cabinet to get at the fresh bottle he knew was in there, and found a photograph taped to the little glass shelf inside. It was grainy, but he could clearly make out the image of Wilson, sleeping peacefully in his bed. It had to have been taken the night before, sometime between the phone call and the time House arrived at Wilson's place.

House ripped the photo off the shelf and flipped it over. There was a message in block print on the back: "YOU CAN'T WATCH OVER HIM ALL THE TIME".

"Like hell I can't," said House out loud and crumpled the picture into a tight ball, tossing it into the trash. "Wilson!" he shouted. "Wilson!"

Wilson burst into the bathroom, his eyes wild with alarm. "House, what's wrong?" he asked, quickly glancing over his friend before scanning the little room for any indications of trouble.

"Wrong? Nothing's wrong," said House. "I missed you." Wilson shook his head and turned to leave. "Where are you going? Stay here and keep me company."

"You're serious?" asked Wilson.

"Humour me," said House.

Wilson shrugged and got comfortable, leaning against the wall as House proceeded to take his pill and brush his teeth. But when House unzipped to go for a pee, Wilson felt a blush rise up and heat his cheeks. It was silly—there was nothing even remotely sexual about the situation, but after their encounter the previous night, he couldn't help it. He turned his back, giving House his privacy, and hopefully hiding the fact that he'd suddenly turned into a self-conscious thirteen-year-old girl.

House noticed, of course, and smirked to himself. How could a man who's been through three marriage and a third of the nursing staff be so shy? Or was it just him he was shy with? It was something House would have to look into later.

"You can look now," said House. "I'm decent…relatively speaking."

"Good. Can I leave now?" asked Wilson. "This hanging out in the bathroom thing is a little weird."

"My bad," said House. "I thought watching me urinate might be a turn-on." Wilson's face turned a hotter shade of pink and House smirked in triumph.

Wilson squirmed. "Don't flatter yourself," he said. "I'd sooner watch my toothless Aunt Nan eat macaroni and cheese. Now hurry it up—we're late for work."

"Or, if you think about it, we're early for lunch," said House. "I'm a 'glass is half full' kind of guy."

"Well I'm an 'avoid getting chewed out by Cuddy' kind of guy, so let's go."

House cast one last, anxious glance at the crumpled photo in the wastebasket. He could almost hear it mocking him; threatening the one thing in his life he actually gave a damn about. On his way out, he closed the door, as if that might silence the offending picture.

* * *

Foreman leaned forward in his chair, attempting to pay attention to what Chase was saying. He was finding it difficult, though, because House was pacing incessantly behind the young Aussie, staring distractedly out through the windows the whole time. The part of Foreman's brain that had tuned out Chase was busy trying to figure out what had so thoroughly captured House's attention. As far as he could tell, the only thing visible through those windows was the balcony…and, at certain angles, Wilson's office.

His dark eyes latched on to his boss, carefully observing his movements and behaviour. He soon picked up on the fact that House was visibly more at ease whenever Wilson's office was within his sights. Foreman leaned forward a little more, trying to adjust his angle so he could see what House was seeing. He'd completely given up any pretence of listening to Chase.

Then he realised that Chase had stopped speaking and was waiting for someone to answer him. But since Foreman hadn't heard a word, he tossed the ball to House, waiting to see if he'd been paying attention at all.

"Why should I care?" asked House, who, apparently, had no trouble listening to Chase and spying on Wilson at the same time. "Talk to her or don't talk to her. If you want to waste your time, go ahead, but the only thing that's come out of her mouth since she got here has been lies. And vomit…ohhh yes…lots of vomit. If you want my opinion, you'll get better answers out of the vomit."

Chase raised his eyebrows at him. "You think it was something she ingested?"

House gave him his patented 'duh!' look and continued pacing.

Chase didn't wait around for a verbal affirmation, but gathered up his charts and left to run more tests on his patient.

And that left Foreman alone with the distracted diagnostician. "Either take a picture or go over there and apologise," he said, his arms crossed, leaning back in his chair smugly, as if he'd just solved the riddle of the sphinx.

House drilled him with a piercing glare. "Just F.Y.I., when you talk to people, it's always a good idea to start at the beginning of the conversation."

"You've spent the entire morning staring at Wilson through those windows. So, either you've had a fight, or you're in love with the guy," said Foreman sarcastically. "Now go over there and apologise; your pacing is getting on my nerves."

"There's nothing to apologise about—we weren't fighting," said House. He grinned a leering grin and let Foreman draw his own conclusions, feeling safe that they would undoubtedly be erroneous. When he looked back outside and in through Wilson's window, the oncologist was gone. He'd only looked away for a minute.

"Dammit!" House grumbled and bolted for the door. He looked both ways down the hall and caught a glimpse of Wilson's dark head and white lab coat disappearing into the men's room at the end of the hall. He followed as quickly as he could and burst in just as Wilson was entering one of the stalls. Wilson stood there, staring at his friend in astonishment.

"Don't hold it in on my account," said House, leaning up against the counter and trying his best to look like he hadn't just mowed down three hospital staff members to get there so quickly.

"What're you doing?" Wilson asked, his hands on his hips like he was addressing a misbehaving four-year-old.

"Hanging out in the men's room," House stated matter-of-factly. "I'm hoping to score with the handsome young doctor that just came in. You didn't happen to see which way he went?"

Wilson tried to hide his smile—House did _not_ need encouraging. And besides, he was still a little annoyed with him for being a pest all morning. The man hadn't let him out of his sight all day, and Wilson was starting to feel like a guppy in a fishbowl. The odd glance now and then he could understand, especially in light of what they'd been through, but House was watching him obsessively. It was as if he thought he might suddenly drop off the face of the Earth if he looked away. It was more than a little unnerving.

"I'd rather not have an audience for this," said Wilson, hinting for House to take his leave.

"Then I'll make sure no one comes in," he replied stubbornly.

"House, you know I have a shy bladder—unlike you. I can't…perform…under pressure."

"That's a very interesting tidbit of information," said House, but at Wilson's look of pained exasperation, he gave in. "Alright, I'm leaving… Wuss."

Wilson shook his head at House's retreating back and went about his business, but he wasn't at all surprised to find House standing sentinel out in the hall when he came out.

"You wanna grab some lunch?" asked House.

Wilson hesitated. He had a lot of paperwork to catch up on, but he had a feeling if he didn't have lunch with him, House would keep spying on him for the rest of the day, and he wouldn't get any work done anyway.

They went down to the cafeteria and loaded up their trays—Wilson paying for both…as usual—and sat down for a very ordinary lunch. House made no attempt to explain his behaviour, and Wilson pretended it wasn't bugging him. To anyone watching, it was just another ordinary day. House made comments about the hygienic ineptitude of the cafeteria staff and stole chips off Wilson's plate. It was routine and comfortable, and by the end of the meal, Wilson was feeling silly for overreacting the way he had.

Unfortunately, after lunch, the staring started all over again.

Every time he looked up from his desk, House was watching him. Every time he set foot out the door, House was there, tagging along. By the end of the day, Wilson was about ready to scream. He was really starting to wonder if their encounter the night before had thrown his friend into a fit of paranoia. One thing was certain—he couldn't handle another day like this. If House kept this up tomorrow, he'd have to do something about it.

* * *

He looked at the clock on his desk. It was only four o'clock. There was no way his bladder was going to hold until quitting time. He peeked into House's office and saw House staring back at him while talking to Chase. He would have found the attention sweet if it wasn't so…creepy.

Then, bless her nicely rounded bottom, Cuddy walked into House's office, and distracted him long enough for Wilson to make a break for it. He wasn't about to make the same mistake twice—if he wanted to go to the bathroom in peace, he would have to sneak off to a different floor. Somewhere quiet. Wilson smiled to himself…the bathroom in the morgue—you couldn't get any quieter than that.

Keeping an eye out for limping, obsessive maniacs, Wilson waited impatiently for the elevator to arrive. As soon as the door opened, he slipped inside and pressed the button for the basement. He breathed a sigh of relief as the door began to slide closed, then groaned when the end of a cane jammed the door open again.

"House, would you give it a rest…" Wilson burst out before he realised the man on the other side of the door wasn't his friend. A big, blond, square-jawed man pushed his way into the elevator before the door could close again. At first Wilson was embarrassed by his mistake, and he was about to apologise to the man for snapping at him, when he noticed that the cane in the man's hand was actually only half a cane. It ended in splinters, a deep fissure snaking down the black-painted wood towards the rubber foot.

Wilson's eyes shot up to the stranger's face and he felt his stomach twist. The man's hazel eyes glared down at him with cold, calculating appraisal. The elevator lurched as it began its descent, and Wilson broke eye contact to see if he could reach the emergency call button.

He heard a metallic click and felt something hard dig into his ribs. At that moment, when his life should have been flashing before his eyes, all Wilson could think was that he wasn't ready—that this had to be a mistake.

"You and me are going for a little ride," said the stranger, his voice rasping and nasal. It was the same voice, Wilson knew, that had been haunting House for days.


	5. Chapter 5

As the elevator descended, Wilson stared at the floor indicator, praying for it to stop at the lobby and for a crowd of people to step inside. But the elevator continued its descent unimpeded.

The door slid open when they reached the basement, and Wilson stood there, completely frozen. It took a heavy shove from the blond man to get him out of the elevator and into the hall. His heart pounding in his ears, Wilson looked down the corridor hopefully, but it was deserted. Another, not-so-gentle shove propelled him down the hall to the right. He stumbled, barely managing to catch himself before falling to the floor. For a second he considered making a run for it, or calling out for help, but there was something in the man's eyes that said he wouldn't hesitate to shoot him on the spot if he tried anything.

"In there," said the man, grabbing Wilson's arm in a crushing grip and steering him towards the nearest autopsy room. The door flapped silently shut behind them, effectively muffling even the faintest noises from the rest of the hospital. The room was abandoned and sterile, and Wilson knew that, barring a sudden onset of plague, it would likely remain so. Two guttered, metal tables lay waiting to receive the hospital's next tragic ending—a thought Wilson did not find particularly comforting as the gunman flung him crashing into one of them.

Wilson was surprised at how calm he felt. The doctor in him understood that it was just his body's natural response to danger—the 'fight or flight' phenomenon. His body was pumping him full of adrenalin and damping his sensations of fear and pain in order to improve his chances of surviving should it come down to a fight. There was only the faintest ache where his hip had slammed into the autopsy table—an injury that would otherwise have had him doubled over in pain. For that, he was grateful, as well as for the feeling of dissociation that came with it.

Wilson was pretty sure that was the only reason he was able to tear his eyes away from the gun and look the man in the eye. "How much is Vogler paying you this time?" he asked. It was like the words had come out of someone else's mouth—someone who wasn't about to get riddled with bullets.

The man sneered, and it looked like he wanted to spit at the mention of Vogler's name. "Vogler's a chicken-shit. You don't hire a guy like me if all you wanna do is scare someone! Cowardly son-of-a-bitch backed out the minute things got fun."

"Then…why are you doing this?"

The man's sneer turned into an ugly grin. "I got my own reasons. That's all you need to know." They stared each other down for a minute, testing each other's limits, but the blond man's cold hazel eyes never wavered for a second. Feeling like his bluff had been called, Wilson dropped his gaze to the floor, and that was the moment he realised he might not make it out of this.

"On your knees," the man's raspy voice demanded. Wilson raised his head, his deep, brown eyes glassy with fear and anger. But he couldn't bring himself to obey the order.

The punch to the gut was so sharp and came so quickly, that for a second, Wilson was convinced he'd been shot. He barely saw the second punch coming—hard knuckles wrapped around the cold, steel pistol—landing inches away from where the first blow had. Wilson crumpled to the floor, gasping desperately for air.

"You're just as stubborn as your gimp friend," came the man's voice from above him. "Now get on your knees, or I'll do to you what I did to him."

Wilson glowered up at the man, and with what little air he'd managed to coax back into his lungs, he bit back; "Fuck you!"

A booted foot collided with Wilson's ribs, and he curled into a tight ball on the floor. But his assailant wasn't about to let him nurse his pain. He felt the man's fingers fisting in his hair, and with an eye-watering yank, Wilson was forced up onto his knees.

The man released his hair from his grip, and with the other he pressed the gun firmly to Wilson's temple. "Now take out my dick," he ordered, jabbing him with the gun just to remind him that he was serious.

Wilson looked up at him, his eyes seething with hatred. He had little choice— even if he hadn't been hurt, he couldn't hope to escape without getting shot. Every breath he took filled his chest with razor-sharp pain, beads of sweat popping out on his forehead as he tried to control his rapid breathing. His hesitation won him a blow to the temple with the heel end of the pistol. Not hard enough to knock him down, but enough to break the skin. A hot stream of blood trickled down his face to pool at his collar.

"Don't make me repeat myself," the man rasped. With unsteady hands, Wilson unwillingly set to work on the other man's belt buckle. His awkwardness made the man chuckle. "Don't tell me you've never done this…pretty mouth like yours?"

Raw hatred flared up in Wilson's eyes only to be instantly replaced with a look of complete shock. Out of the corner of his eye he'd seen movement; the door was flapping shut, and standing only a few feet away was House. His eyes were murderously dark, his cane raised like a baseball bat, and his whole body was tensed, poised to attack. To Wilson, he looked amazingly like an enraged grizzly bear, reared up on its hind legs with its claws bared in a ferocious display of protectiveness.

The blond man hadn't heard or seen House approach, but he had noticed Wilson's reaction, and it was enough to make him twist around to look behind him. House swung his cane with everything he had, and it impacted with the man's chest with a satisfyingly loud whump. Stunned, the man staggered back a step, but he was still within striking distance, and the second swing of the cane caught him squarely on the jaw, knocking him off his feet.

Wilson was too stunned to move at first, watching House land blow after blow with his cane, turning his victimiser into his victim with every strike. But when the man stopped moving, Wilson grew alarmed. He knew that if he didn't stop House now, he'd keep on going until the man was dead. Even though a large part of him felt the guy deserved it, he couldn't allow his friend to ruin his life and his career in a moment of unthinking rage.

"Greg!" he said, getting to his feet. "Greg, stop!" He cautiously approached his friend, worried that in his state of blind fury, House might unintentionally direct his aggression towards him. When he got close enough, he gently laid his hand on House's shoulder. "Greg, you can stop now. I think you won."

The cane stalled mid-air as Wilson's words penetrated the fog of rage in House's mind. He looked at Wilson with slow-dawning recognition.

"Wilson…" He glanced down at the bloodied heap on the floor and back up to his friend. "I had no choice—he would have…"

"I know. I know," said Wilson, surreptitiously guiding his friend out of cane's reach of the man on the floor, in case he got it in his head to start in on the guy again.

For the first time since he got there, House had a chance to take a good, long look at his friend, and size up the damage. "How bad did he hurt you?" he asked, peering into Wilson's eyes critically. Pupils looked okay…probably no concussion.

"I'm fine," Wilson answered automatically.

House's forehead crinkled up doubtfully and he cautiously dabbed at the blood trailing down his friend's face. "Wanna try that again? This time with feeling."

"I'm fine. Really," said Wilson, but he was finding it hard to make eye contact with him. Those intense blue eyes saw everything—knew everything he'd been through…and then some. The shock of the attack was starting to wear off, and Wilson was beginning to process what had just happened to him. He felt shaky, both physically and emotionally, and all it took was a friendly hand on his shoulder for him to fall apart completely. He found himself leaning into House's open arms, feeling guilty for accepting comfort from a man who'd been through so much worse. It didn't seem fair, and Wilson tried to push away from him.

"Stop squirming, you moron. This is for your own good." House rubbed wide, reassuring arcs across Wilson's back, breathing in the scent of him as he held him close. In a near-whisper, he added; "And mine."

House held Wilson until he stopped shaking, and then led him further away from the groaning debris on the floor. House wasn't sure if he was relieved or disappointed that he hadn't killed his attacker, but he had no doubt he would have finished the job if it hadn't been for Wilson.

As they were slowly making their way to the door, it suddenly swung open and two bulky security guards entered, with Cuddy close behind. She took one look at Wilson's bloodied face and started running towards them.

"My God! Wilson! What happened to you?" she asked, immediately checking him over for other signs of trauma.

"You should see the other guy," said House, nodding his head towards the human wreckage lying on the floor behind them. "He's a real mess."

As the security guards brushed past him to get to the blond man, House added: "Feel free to use excessive force—I did. Did I mention he has a gun?"

Cuddy steered Wilson and House out of the autopsy room and into the elevator, although she wasn't even sure they were aware of her presence—they seemed to be in a world of their own. She couldn't help noticing the proprietary nature of House's behaviour towards Wilson. He wouldn't so much as let her get near him, physically shielding him from her whenever she tried.

When they arrived at the lobby, more security guards had shown up, squeezing past them to get into the elevator. They then had to fight their way through a throng of concerned staff members who'd gathered to see what was happening. Suddenly House's shielding of Wilson made perfect sense, and Cuddy gave him a hand, taking point and ploughing a path through the field of onlookers.

"Get back to work, everyone," she commanded. "Everything's under control." That got rid of most of the people, who were not about to risk their jobs for the sake of curiosity. The remaining few stragglers were too concerned over Wilson to listen to Dr. Cuddy, and could only be avoided by ducking in to the nearest clinic exam room.

Cuddy stood with her back against the door to prevent anyone else from coming in. She watched House fuss over Wilson, settling him onto the exam table and gathering supplies to see to his wounds.

"So…who wants to start?" she asked them.

House looked up from his suture tray with a frown. "Start what? 'Cause if you're thinking 'spin the bottle', then you can count me in."

"I was thinking more along the lines of 'truth or dare'. Emphasis on the 'truth' part," Cuddy replied.

House and Wilson looked at each other, holding a silent conversation. House's eyes pleading for Wilson to say nothing, Wilson's eyes pleading for House to say _something. _Not surprisingly, it was Wilson who cracked first.

"There's nothing to tell. The guy followed me into the elevator and held me at gunpoint. And if House hadn't shown up when he did, I'm pretty sure he would have killed me."

"Uh-huh," said Cuddy. "Don't get me wrong—I believe you—but that doesn't explain how House knew to call security, or why the man who attacked you had House's old cane." She stood with her arms crossed, letting them both know that she wasn't going to be satisfied until she had all the answers.

Wilson felt like a kid who'd been dragged in front of the principal for something he didn't do, and he looked to House for help. But House was 'occupied', filling a hypodermic with lidocaine, and was no help at all. So he was left to handle Cuddy on his own, a task he was most definitely not up to at the moment. "I…uh… That is, House… Hang on," Wilson said, turning again to House, "how _did _you know to call security?"

"I saw him getting onto the elevator," said House.

"But how did you know Wilson was in danger?" asked Cuddy. "Do you know this guy?"

House shifted his weight self-consciously, his brow furrowing as he evaluated the situation, trying to decide how much of the truth he should tell her. "I met him once. I guess you could say he really made an impression on me."

Cuddy didn't know what to make of House's bitter smile or of Wilson's sudden inability to look at her, but she knew there was a lot more going on than they were telling her. "The police are on their way now, and they're going to want to talk to you," she said, looking at House. "Is there anything you want to tell me before they get here? Do you need a lawyer?"

"No. He doesn't need a lawyer," said Wilson, coming to House's defence. "The man had a gun to my head—House did what he had to to protect me."

"He nearly beat the man to death with his cane!" exclaimed Cuddy.

"I have anger management issues," said House flatly.

Cuddy threw up her arms in exasperation. "I'm getting you a lawyer," she said. "And I strongly suggest you start taking this seriously." She was halfway out the door when House called out and stopped her.

"Cuddy, wait," he said.

Cuddy stepped back inside, closing the door behind her and turned her attention to House expectantly. She was surprised to find her chief diagnostician uncharacteristically at a loss for words. He kept looking over at Wilson, as if he was drawing support from the other man, and Wilson was doing his best to provide it.

Clearing his throat, House took the plunge. "That guy in the basement—the guy that attacked Wilson… It's the same guy that attacked me a few days ago. Vogler hired him to threaten me…"

Cuddy snorted out a laugh, but quickly stifled it. "Sorry," she said, her eyes bright with amusement. "But you expect me to believe this is all about you and Vogler?"

"Actually…it is," said Wilson, his earnest brown eyes meeting Cuddy's.

"I've got the bruises on my ass to prove it," said House. "Wanna see?"

Cuddy looked from House to Wilson and then back at House again, her face a mask of doubt. "Vogler?"

"I guess I must have done something to really piss him off," said House with an innocent shrug.

"So he sends a goon to beat up Wilson?" she asked sceptically.

Neither one of them could answer her. Wilson wasn't sure of the answer, himself, and House didn't think he was ready just yet to let her in on the whole story.

Cuddy shook her head at them. "Just get your stories straight. And House, if you do have proof that this man attacked you, you're going to have to come out with it. If this man's as dangerous as you suggest, then the more evidence we have against him, the better."

House nodded like a child being reprimanded in front of the class. And the second she was out of the room he winked at Wilson. "Thought she'd never leave," he said and went about preparing his sutures.

Wilson watched him, his mind slowly going through the events of the day, trying to make sense out of it all. "You knew he was going to come after me, didn't you?" he asked, and winced as House daubed at the cut on his temple with an alcohol wipe.

House said nothing, pretending to be too busy to hear him.

"That was the call you got last night, wasn't it? That was why you rushed over to my place in the middle of the night in your bare feet."

House remained stubbornly silent.

"Why didn't you tell me? My God, House! How could you not have told me I was in danger?" He batted House's hand away from his temple and glared at him angrily.

House attempted once more to finish cleaning the cut on Wilson's head, only to have his hand batted away again. He sighed. "Sit still," he said, "or you'll end up looking like Dr. Frankenstein sewed you up."

"Don't touch me," Wilson snapped at him, beating House's hand away for the third time.

"Suturing through telekinesis?" asked House facetiously. "Cool concept, but I don't think my ESP skills are up to it."

"House! I just had a gun put to my head! He could have killed me! If you'd warned me…hell, if you'd gone to the police in the first place…"

"I know!" House snapped back. "This was all my fault—you don't think I know that? I thought I could handle it myself. I thought no one else would have to know. I thought…I thought I could protect you…" House's voice cracked, and he brought his hands up to Wilson's face, holding him steady so he couldn't look away. He wanted him to know that he meant what he was about to say.

"I'm sorry," said House, his throat so tight that the words came out as a croaky whisper.

Wilson, who had never heard his friend utter those words sincerely, was stunned out of his anger. A long moment passed, a quiet moment in which they shared their regrets and their forgiveness, and by the end they seemed to come to a new understanding of each other. And as House's thumbs brushed gentle strokes over Wilson's cheeks, they were drawn together—foreheads meeting, noses bumping softly, quickened breath mingling, until at last their lips found each other.

Wilson circled his arms around House's waist, pulling him closer as his tongue explored the other man's mouth. With all of the trauma he'd gone through that day, he felt as if he'd found safe harbour in House's arms, and he clung to him tightly, even though his ribs protested, just to assure himself that it was real.

They were so lost in each other that they didn't hear Cuddy come in until she cleared her throat. Wilson jumped at the sound, and when he saw her standing there, he could feel the heat rising up to colour his cheeks. House simply looked at her as if he was merely annoyed at the interruption.

"The police are here," she said, trying in vain to appear as if she wasn't shocked by what she'd seen. "They're waiting outside to talk to you, House."

"I'm not done with Wilson, yet," he said.

"I'll take over," said Cuddy, and quickly added, "the stitching!" before House could suggest otherwise.

House eyed her suspiciously. "Alright, but keep in mind that I'll be checking for lipstick and hickies when I get back."

Once House was gone, Cuddy picked up the lidocaine and approached Wilson, who squirmed uncomfortably on the exam table, avoiding her eyes.

"You call that being discreet?" she asked.

Wilson looked up at her guiltily, his mouth open, ready to explain, until he realised that she was smiling.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: I promise I will finish this with the next chapter, in which there are confrontations, good and bad, and the H/W action kicks up a notch :). Thank-you everyone for all the comments! It's been a lot of fun writing this, because of you!

* * *

The clinic had closed at five o'clock, so the police had their pick of empty rooms in which to question House, Wilson, Cuddy, and anyone else who seemed even remotely linked to the "incident" in the basement. House had spent more than two hours in an exam room answering the same questions over and over, and much to his humiliation, they'd insisted on photographing his bruises. He couldn't help feeling like they were treating him like he was the bad guy in all this. Meanwhile, their own ER was tending to House's "victim"—a fact that didn't sit very well with House.

The man, whose name, it turned out, was Karl Victor Polski, had regained consciousness shortly after his transfer to the emergency room. Since then, the tiny, curtained-off cubicle had been a veritable hive of activity, with nurses and cops buzzing around the blond man constantly.

It was nearing seven-thirty when House, Cuddy and Wilson were herded into Dr. Cuddy's office to wait for Captain Barnes to come in and give them a debriefing. They were all worn out and tired of talking, and the silence in the room was a blessed relief. And although none of them said a word, it was obvious from the doom and gloom atmosphere in the office that they were all thinking along the same lines—whatever this debriefing was about, it was most likely going to be bad news for House.

House and Wilson sat side by side on Cuddy's couch, studiously avoiding touching each other, and Cuddy, sitting at her desk, found the tangible restraint maddening. She kept waiting for them to say or do something; to give some sort of sign that what she'd witnessed between them that afternoon had actually happened.

She never got her proof.

Captain Barnes arrived, and she was not what any of them had expected. The matronly blonde woman looked like she would feel more at home in a PTA meeting than in a police station, and the second she stepped inside the office, Cuddy and Wilson cast worrying glances in House's direction, certain that he would make some derogatory comment and get himself into even more trouble. Although it was clear from the sparkle in House's eyes that he had, indeed, come up with a few real zingers, he wisely held his tongue.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," said Captain Barnes, her voice as light and wispy as her bleach-blonde hair. House cringed as the urge to say something became downright painful. Still, he kept quiet, much to Wilson's surprise. "I just wanted to meet with you and let you know that I've been put in charge of this case. So if you have any questions about anything, or if you think of anything you might want to add to your statements, I want you to give me a call." She handed each of them her card with a warm smile. "Okay then. We'll be in touch."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa," said House. Barnes stopped with her hand on the door handle and turned to look at him, puzzled. "What? That's it?" asked House. "Two and a half hours of interrogation and all you have to say is 'we'll be in touch'?"

"House," Cuddy warned.

"I'm sorry," said Captain Barnes, honestly confused. "Was there something else?"

House looked at her like he thought the bleach in her hair had fried her brain. "Yeah. For starters, are you letting this Karl creep go? Should Wilson be hiring a fulltime bodyguard? Am I under arrest? I realise it may not be all that important to you, but I, personally, want to know if I'm about to spend the next ten years of my life in a tiny cell with a six foot five lifer named Skanks."

Captain Barnes frowned at him. "Didn't Lieutenant Richards talk to you?" she asked. When three sets of blank faces stared back at her, she shook her head and mumbled a string of curses that were definitely better suited for a police station than a PTA meeting. "Then I guess I'd better fill you in on the latest news," she said. "Karl Polski signed a full confession about an hour ago. Apparently he thinks he can cut a deal if he brings Edward Vogler down with him. He's admitted to the attack on Dr. Wilson, and he also admitted he sexually assaulted Dr. House, but he's claiming that he was under direct orders from Mr. Vogler. In any case, Polski's been placed under arrest, and you're all free to go home." The heavy silence that followed was not what Captain Barnes was expecting, and, sensing that she was no longer a welcome presence in the room, she quickly excused herself and took her leave.

House sat staring down at his cane, feeling Cuddy's eyes drilling into him, and waiting for the inevitable questions to begin.

"When?" Cuddy asked, cutting right to the chase.

"Four nights ago," House answered reluctantly, still staring down at his cane as he thumped it repetitively against the floor.

Cuddy did the math and realized that it had happened the night before Vogler and House had faced off in front of the clinic. Then she remembered how odd Wilson had been acting that day and the pieces started falling into place. "You knew about this?" she asked Wilson accusingly.

"I asked him to keep it to himself," said House, finally lifting his eyes to look at her.

Cuddy saw the pain lurking behind his carefully neutral expression, and she had to look away. "Did you at least get yourself checked out?" she asked, suddenly very interested in the files on her desktop.

"I'm clean," said House, abruptly getting to his feet. "Don't worry, I'm not contagious."

"I'm sorry," said Cuddy, making herself look him in the eye again.

"This is exactly why I didn't want anyone else to know," said House, and he limped his way out of her office with as much dignity as he could muster.

Cuddy looked to Wilson, not knowing what to do. "I really messed that up, didn't I?" she asked him.

"No," said Wilson, shaking his head sadly. "You reacted the same way everyone else will." With a deep sigh, he got up off the couch and went out to find his friend.

* * *

Wilson found House sitting in his dark office, rolling his red and white rubber ball between the palms of his hands, as he stared out the window. Wilson entered, not bothering to knock, and stood in front of his friend, hands on his hips, trying to think of something to say.

"How long?" asked House, his eyes hidden in the striped shadows cast by the vertical blinds.

"How long until what?" asked Wilson.

"How long until everyone in the hospital finds out?" said House. "Cuddy will keep quiet about it, but how many ER nurses got wind of Polski's confession? I figure even if only two of them heard it, it'll be common knowledge by the time the day shift comes in tomorrow morning. Then what? Another hour tops, before Chase and Foreman hear the rumours. Then it'll be non-stop questions. Or worse—pity silence."

"You could always take a sick day," Wilson suggested.

"And let the rumours fester unchecked? Never!" House scoffed as he spun his chair around to face him.

Wilson sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Well, there's no sense worrying about it tonight. C'mon. Let's go home," he said and held out his hand.

House looked at him, not sure what, if anything, he should infer by that statement. He decided it didn't really matter, and he took the offered hand up.

* * *

House drove Wilson's car home, giving his friend a chance to unwind after what must have been the longest day of his life. Occasionally he would cast a glance in Wilson's direction, only to find the younger man staring out the passenger window, lost in thought. God knew, they both had a lot to think about, but House was content to push everything aside for now and simply enjoy the mindless task of driving.

Wilson, on the other hand, couldn't turn off the maelstrom of thoughts in his head. The day's events whipped through his mind in a chaotic barrage of images. Over and over he kept seeing the dark, cavernous opening of the gun barrel pointed at his face. He kept seeing the murderous glint in House's eyes just before he took Karl down. And the broken end of House's cane prying open the elevator door. He wasn't even aware of the fact that they'd arrived at the condo until House gave him a good nudge. Shaking his head to clear the last of those images from his mind, Wilson followed House to the front doorstep of his condo.

And then he stopped.

He wasn't prepared for this. This wasn't like all the other times he'd been there. This time, when he crossed over the threshold, he wouldn't just be a friend coming over for an evening of Chinese food and video games. This time he'd be there as something more than a friend…he just didn't know how _much_ more, and that made him nervous.

"Make up your mind," said House, snapping Wilson out of his reverie. "Are you in or out?"

That was the question, wasn't it, thought Wilson? If he was in, then he had to be in all the way. Anything less than a full commitment on his part could do more damage to House's psyche than the already-damaged man could handle. It was a hell of a responsibility to take on, especially since he hadn't had a chance to work out how he felt about it all. But this was _House_. He couldn't envision a life without him.

Wilson took a tentative step inside.

"That's it…one foot in front of the other," said House, and then he limped away as if he hadn't noticed Wilson's sudden bout of jitters. He returned a moment later with the phone in his hand. "So I was thinking…pizza and a movie. Sound good?" asked House, already dialling the number for delivery.

Wilson nodded numbly and hung up his jacket. He felt a little stupid for worrying—House didn't seem to have a problem with their new situation, so why should he? He decided to step back and stop analysing it so much. Tonight he would let House take the lead; if something happened, then…fine, he'd deal with it. If not…well, he'd deal with that, too. After all, two kisses that happened under emotionally charged circumstances didn't necessarily mean anything. He settled himself down on the couch, allowing the familiar surroundings to soothe his frazzled nerves. He could hear House puttering around in the kitchen, opening and closing cupboards, shuffling around in that peculiar way of his. He heard the soft tinkling of broken glass being swept up into a dustpan and dumped into the garbage. And then he heard the unmistakable sound of two beer bottles being opened. Wilson smiled. Some things would never change.

A minute later a cold bottle of beer appeared in front of him, and Wilson plucked it out of House's hand just as he had done countless times before. It would be so easy to pretend this was just another one of those times—but he couldn't fool himself. The beer sat untouched in his hands, dripping cold beads of sweat into his palms as flashes of the day's events dragged him back down into the maelstrom again.

"Uh-oh," said House as he took a seat next to Wilson on the couch. Wilson blinked back at him, waiting for the rest of it. "You look pensive."

"Does that surprise you?" asked Wilson.

"Not really," House answered. "I'm more concerned about what's got you thinking so much."

"Gee, where do I start?" Wilson snipped.

"You could start by not biting my head off," said House. "Just a suggestion."

"Sorry," said Wilson. He rubbed the back of his neck, his beer-chilled fingers digging into the bunched muscles there. "It's been a long day, and I really don't feel like talking about it."

"Okay then—we won't," said House, and he got up to turn on the TV and DVD player. "What you need is relaxation and distraction. The distraction for tonight is "Die Hard, With a Vengeance"…plenty of pretend violence to take your mind off the real-life stuff. Drink up—I'm already half a beer ahead of you in the relaxation department."

Wilson brought the bottle up to his lips and took a long pull on it. It felt good going down, and the rest of it went down very quickly.

"I didn't mean you had to chug it all in one go," said House. "Pace yourself a little—I've only got another ten bottles in the fridge."

Wilson plunked the empty bottle down on the coffee table and stood up. "Soon to be nine," he said, and went to the kitchen to help himself to another beer.

* * *

By the time he was on his fourth beer, and all but two slices of pizza were left in the delivery boxes, Wilson finally felt relaxed. Not a word had been said all evening about Karl Polski or Vogler. And House hadn't made any attempt to get closer to him.

Not that he would have minded. Pizza and a movie were nice enough…but he'd expected something to happen—found that he really wanted something to happen.

Wilson drained his fourth beer, set the empty bottle on the table next to the rest of the fallen soldiers already gathered there, and sat back down on the couch. Only, this time, he shifted close enough so that his leg rubbed up against House's, and he left his hand on his lap as an invitation.

House arched an eyebrow at him. "What are we—twelve years old?"

Wilson looked back at him, not sure how he was supposed to answer that.

"We're two grown men," said House. "Don't you think it's a bit silly to be flirting?"

"I…uh…" Wilson sputtered. He couldn't manage anything more coherent, reeling as he was from the sting of embarrassment.

House continued, seemingly oblivious of the confusion in Wilson's eyes. "We've known each other for eight years. I was the best man at your wedding—twice—and here we are dancing around each other as if we don't already know what we want." When Wilson simply blinked back at him in shocked silence, House went on: "I know you're as curious as I am about what's going on between us. If you weren't, you would never have slept in the same bed as me last night. We were curious. Things happened. And I don't think you'd be here flirting with me right now if you weren't at least subconsciously willing to take it to the next level."

An uncertain smile toyed at the corners of Wilson's mouth. "And all of that was your way of saying…what? You want to be my boyfriend?" He knew this was a precarious road he was on, and he was driving drunk.

"Again—what are we, twelve?" asked House.

"Okay, then…what? Sex? Marriage? We could move to Canada—it's legal there, and I hear the beer's good."

"Are you being intentionally dense?" asked House.

"Yes!" Wilson shot back, too tired and too drunk to be playing this game. "Because I'm not a mind-reader, Greg. I don't know what you want. I barely understand what I want, myself. So forgive me if I can't keep up with the all-knowing Greg House."

House dropped his gaze to his hands and sighed. This wasn't going the way he'd envisioned. By the time he looked up again, Wilson had clamed down, but had lapsed into a state of sullenness.

"Alright," said House. "How about this? I'll tell you what I want, and if it sounds like something you might want, too, then we'll run with it."

"Sounds…reasonable," said Wilson cautiously, wondering where his friend was going with this. House leaned back in his seat and peered at Wilson with such blatant affection that Wilson couldn't help but blush, confirming that he was, in fact, twelve.

"I want…" House started, then pretended like he really needed to think about it, "…you." His expression shifted slightly, some of the levity falling away to be replaced by something a little more real. "I want to take you into my bed at night and wake up with you in the morning. And then I want to spend as many hours in between with you as I can. And I want that for as long as I can have it. As for the physical stuff…I figure we can work that out as we go along. What do you think?" he asked, and he sat perfectly still, waiting for Wilson's answer.

Wilson knew that this was the moment everything would change. It wasn't a game, and it wasn't something to be taken lightly. House was talking long-term commitment, even though he hadn't said it in so many words. Wilson felt more nervous than he had when he'd proposed to his last two wives. But then, he'd known House longer and felt a stronger connection with him than he had with them.

Wilson took a deep, steadying breath and looked House in the eyes. "I want that, too," he said, his voice a little less steady than he'd hoped it would be.

House's eyes crinkled up in a slightly smug smile. "One foot in front of the other," he said.

Wilson shook his head with a dry chuckle, as he realized that House had orchestrated the whole evening from the moment he'd set foot through the door.


	7. Chapter 7

A tension had lifted that Wilson hadn't even realized was there. It was the same kind of relief he'd felt after uttering the words 'I do'. Only, this time, there weren't hundreds of friends and relatives standing around waiting for the party to start. And, of course, after you said the words 'I do', the only thing left to do to seal the deal was kiss. Far be it for Wilson to break with tradition.

Before their smiles had a chance to fade, he leaned in and kissed Greg. But unlike a formal kiss at the altar, this kiss didn't bow to propriety. It was gritty and needy, and maybe a little bit awkward at first. But by the time they finally parted, there could be little doubt that they wanted the same thing.

Wilson dropped his gaze to House's lap where evidence of what the other man wanted had created a noticeable bulge in his jeans. House retaliated by overtly sizing up Wilson's own physical declaration. Wilson began to lean in again, but House pulled back.

"Too much too soon?" asked Wilson, concern etched into his boyish features.

House let out a snorting laugh. "Right—it only took us eight years to get this far, I think we should wait another eight before getting to second base."

"Then what's wrong?" asked Wilson.

"Nothing. It's just…the couch isn't the most comfortable place for this. The angles are all wrong," said House, giving his right thigh a pat as further explanation.

"Okay…so we move," said Wilson practically. He stood and headed off in the direction of House's bedroom like he owned the place.

House gave Wilson's ass an appreciative glance before getting up and following him. But instead of following him all the way into the bedroom, he took a detour into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

"Hey!" he heard Wilson call from the other side of the door.

"You're not getting anywhere near second base until I've had a shower," said House. A very quick shower, he thought to himself, sporting a wicked leer that would have had Wilson turning a violent shade of pink, had he been there to see it.

He stripped out of his clothes with a haste he rarely employed, and turned on the water. He impatiently urged the spray to heat up, stepping gingerly into the tub the instant it reached a tolerable temperature. The thrum of hot water sluicing down his body felt incredibly good—so good that he couldn't curb the urge to hum. And the humming drowned out the sound of the bathroom door opening; he had no idea he was no longer alone.

"Beethoven's Ninth?" came Wilson's voice as the shower door slid open on its track.

"Not even close," said House, hoping Wilson couldn't tell that he'd just scared ten years off his life. He was willing to forgive him, however, since the shock was instantly followed by the sight of the other man stepping naked into the bathtub behind him.

"I'm not much of a classical music buff," said Wilson, closing the shower door after him.

"That was The Grateful Dead," said House, peering over his shoulder.

"Then you're not much of a hummer," said Wilson.

"Everybody's a critic," House grouched beneath his smile. "Anyway, I thought you didn't like sharing the bathroom."

"What can I say…? I missed you," said Wilson. And to prove it, he slid his hands up House's back to his shoulders and stepped in close to lay a kiss at the nape of his neck.

House let out a soft, grumbling moan and dropped his head forward to give Wilson more room to work. Two warm hands gently massaged his shoulders as more kisses dotted his neck and back, each one sending a jolt of anticipation throughout his body.

Wilson's arms slowly circled his waist, drawing their bodies closer together. The kisses continued, more intently now, and House felt Wilson's chest press up tight against his back…felt his erection press up against his ass.

Suddenly the walls of the shower seemed to close in around House as a thin coil of panic began to unfurl in the pit of his stomach. He felt trapped, penned in, and now Wilson's kisses seemed altogether too demanding. He started to struggle, trying to free himself from the arms that bound him.

Wilson knew what was happening, but he also knew that if he let go, House was going to fall, and in the tight confines of the shower, he would definitely hurt himself. Wilson tried to talk him down, and his voice seemed to at least keep his panic from escalating. With careful manoeuvring, he managed to turn House around so they were facing each other, and when their eyes met, some of the fear seemed to melt away.

"Greg…" Wilson began.

House looked away, the compassion in those soulful brown eyes too much to contend with at the moment. It was hard enough trying to calm down without having to assure Wilson that he was okay.

"Greg, I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking," said Wilson, his voice raw with guilt.

House shook his head as if dismissing the apology. "It wasn't your fault."

"It was," Wilson insisted. "I should have known better. I went too fast."

"You're right. You were way out of line," said House, lifting his eyes. "I distinctly remember saying 'second base'—you were trying to slide into home."

Wilson let out a breath of relief, knowing that if House could joke about it, then he was okay. "I think we need an umpire," said Wilson, receiving a grunted laugh in response.

House's hands slipped down Wilson's chest, lightly tracing the livid bruises left by Karl's attack—bruises that mirrored his own. He brought a hand up to Wilson's temple, ghosting over the bandage there before dropping it back to his chest again. He'd come too close to losing him today, and he couldn't help thinking that a few more well-placed strokes of his cane would have ensured that Karl Polski could never touch them again. It was bad enough that the memory of Polski had ruined what should have been a perfect night between him and Wilson.

"Sorry, Jimmy—I think the game's over for tonight," said House sadly, wishing he could give Wilson what he wanted.

"That's okay," said Wilson, cupping House's face in his hands. "We have all the time in the world."

House placed a rather chaste kiss on Wilson's lips. "Water's getting cold," he said, matter-of-factly, but his eyes betrayed the depth of his gratitude.

Wilson could get used to this. Waking up in House's arms made him feel both safe and needed, and he hoped they would never grow out of this stage. What surprised him most was how affectionate House was—something he'd never suspected in all their years of friendship. It also surprised him how easily his friend had adapted to the shift in their relationship—he seemed to have none of the reservations that Wilson had. But then, House never seemed to have reservations about _anything_ he did, so perhaps it shouldn't be so surprising after all.

The peaceful moment was shattered when the phone rang. Even in his sleep, House flinched at the sound and the memories it undoubtedly stirred up in him. Wilson quickly reached over and picked up the phone before it could ring a second time.

"Hello?" Wilson said quietly into the receiver.

"Hello, Dr. House, it's Captain Barnes."

"Uh…actually, this is Dr. Wilson," he answered softly.

"Oh—I'm sorry, Dr. Wilson. I must have dialled your number by mistake," she said.

"No—you've got the right number. Dr. House is still sleeping."

"Oh." There was a pregnant pause as Captain Barnes digested this bit of whispered information. It was a revelation that shed light on a couple of things that had been bugging her…like why Wilson had been targeted when Vogler had only intended to go after House, and why House had kept such a close eye on him when he should have had no reason to fear for his safety. Trying not to sound too shocked, she said: "Well, can you pass a message on to him when he wakes up?"

"Sure."

"I just thought he might like to know that Edward Vogler was arrested early this morning, thanks to evidence provided by Polski."

"That's…wonderful news," said Wilson.

"Not as wonderful as it sounds, I'm afraid," she replied. "Mr. Vogler has money and power on his side. I doubt he'll stay behind bars for long. Just a warning."

"Right. Thanks," said Wilson. He cast a glance at his peacefully sleeping friend and placed the phone back in its cradle, careful not to wake him up.

"So what's the wonderful news?" asked House, his eyes still shut as if he was still asleep.

"You could have told me you were awake," said Wilson.

House cracked an eye open. "You could have just let it ring—the machine would have picked up eventually. Really; what would Cuddy think if she called here first thing in the morning and you answer the phone? Rumours will spread."

Wilson took one look at House's devilish grin and rolled onto his back, throwing his arm over his eyes in defeat. "What am I getting myself into?"

"Traction, if you don't tell me what the wonderful news is," House answered.

Wilson sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed with a sigh—it was time to get up, anyways. "That was Captain Barnes," he said, twisting around so he could gauge House's reaction when he told him the rest of it. "Vogler's been arrested."

House seemed to ponder the news for a moment, then he nodded once, as if he approved. And that was it. Just a nod and he was ready to move on.

"Are you going back to your place to pack?" asked House. "'Cause if you are, you can take me with you. I need the 'Vette."

The thought of returning home made Wilson's head ache. Even knowing Julie wouldn't be there, he hated the idea of going back to pack hi things, and if it weren't for the personal belongings he couldn't bear to part with, he would just leave everything for Julie to throw out. "Yeah. I guess it's best to get it over with," he said with a deep sigh.

"If it helps, I've got a spare suitcase you can use," said House with a distinctly mischievous look. "Under the bed."

Curiosity got the better of him, and Wilson took the bait. He knelt down on the floor and reached his arm under the bed. His fingers quickly encountered the leather hide of a suitcase, and he felt around for the handle. Snagging it, he dragged the dust bunny-laden luggage out from its hiding place, where it had obviously resided for years.

When he saw the familiar blue, floral-patterned suitcase, Wilson's jaw dropped open. It was one of three matching bags Julie had bought for their honeymoon in Tahiti. The bag that had mysteriously gone missing from the trunk of their taxi when they'd arrived at the airport.

"How…? Three years! You've had this stashed under your bed for three years?" Wilson sputtered. "My jeans…so that's how you got my clothes!"

"See? I knew you'd remember," said House smugly.

"But…why?" asked Wilson.

"It was a wedding present," House answered. "I thought it might spice up your honeymoon if you had no clothes and were forced to hang around your hotel room naked."

House was right; it should have been the perfect excuse to start their honeymoon off with a bang. Wilson had to laugh—if only House knew—that stupid, missing piece of luggage had sparked their first serious fight as husband and wife. Maybe that should have been an indication of what was to come, he thought wryly. Not that it mattered much anymore. Wilson looked down at House, who was lying propped up on his elbow with a proud smile on his face, and he realized that he'd left Julie for House a long time ago.

House called Cuddy while Wilson was in the shower and told her he needed the morning off to help Wilson move. She was only too willing to give him the time off, and House did his best to ignore the overly-sympathetic tone in her voice when she asked how they were doing. He assured her that they were fine with a little more snark than he usually employed, and hung up.

Of course, he didn't actually spend the morning helping Wilson move. He had a score to settle, and that meant calling in a big favour and pulling some strings to do it. A few misleading phone calls and some outright lies to the right people got him a meeting with the man who'd started it all.

House waited in the phone booth-like cubicle until Vogler appeared, escorted in by two guards. Much to House's disappointment, he wasn't in chains, but they did have him decked out in one of those garish, orange jumpsuits, which was a start, at least.

"Big man behind bars…" said House. "Looks like you pissed off the wrong guy."

Vogler took a seat in the chair opposite House. He didn't look the least bit surprised to see him, and despite being on the jail-side of the bullet-proof barrier, Vogler seemed to be enjoying himself immensely.

"If you've come to gloat, I wouldn't bother," said Vogler. "My attorneys assure me I'll be out in a week, with an apology from the D.A.."

House glared back at him, his blue eyes glinting hard and cold in the stark fluorescent lighting, and his lips curled up in a bitter smile. "A week is long enough. A lot can happen in a week when you're in prison."

"Am I supposed to be scared?" asked Vogler, flashing him a brilliantly white grin. "You forget that money goes a long way, even in here. Let's just say that I've been made more than comfortable here."

"You may have money," said House, "but I have connections. Guess who I bumped into today. Go on, guess."

Vogler said nothing, refusing to play along with him.

"Party poop," said House. "Fine, I was gonna tell you anyway. I paid my good friend Mr. Arnello a visit this morning. I told him I didn't want the Corvette he gave me anymore because you ruined it for me. And when he asked me why, I told him enough of the truth to get him really pissed off at you. Not that he wasn't already pissed at you for nearly getting his brother killed. He was very interested to hear you were in jail. Turns out he knows a few guys on the inside—guys with some serious clout—and they arranged for you to get a new cellmate."

The smile on Vogler's face dimmed a notch, but that was the only indication that House's words had affected him at all.

"You remember Karl Polski? Huge, blond, psychopathic serial rapist? I'm sure the two of you will be very happy together," said House. He got up and left, ignoring the futile threats made by Vogler behind his back. A small grin of satisfaction lit up his face—there was a great deal to be said for Karma, he thought.

House was one step closer to erasing Vogler from his life for good. In a few days, things at work would settle back into the usual routine, and he had Wilson to help him over the rough patches…so in a way, some things had improved. Only one thing remained unresolved.

On his way to the hospital, House took a side trip—one last errand to set things right again. He arrived at Cameron's apartment and took a moment to compose himself. As much as he wanted her back on his team, he had to admit that he felt more than a little uneasy asking her to come back. Of the bunch, she was the most likely to make a fuss over the Vogler thing, and that was the last thing he wanted to deal with right now. But if he could downplay it before she had a chance to hear the hospital gossip…

Steeling himself, House raised his cane and rapped sharply on her apartment door. Cameron opened it a moment later, looking less than happy to see him. Good, he thought, the news hasn't spread yet. She just stood there looking at him, and he realised she was waiting for him to explain his presence.

"I saw the light on," said House, figuring it was a start, at least.

"It's daytime," Cameron answered flatly.

"Yeah, it's a figure of speech. Always so literal," he said and paused, lost for ideas. It was turning out to be more difficult than he'd anticipated.

"Got a new cane," said Cameron.

House hid his flinch and did his best to sound casual; "Yeah. Guy in the store said it was slimming. Vertical stripe…"

"Why are you here?" asked Cameron, cutting to the chase.

"Vogler is dead," he said, and in that moment he felt a weight lift off his shoulders. It was true…to him, Vogler was dead, and he finally knew in his heart that it was over. Life would go on. And tonight, just maybe, he might make it to third base.


End file.
